


Addictions Change (But People Don't)

by Horsegirl_PanickedKilljoy



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bert and Frank are those "are you sure no homo" friends, Coffee Shop, F/M, Frank spends a lot of time at a bar, Hooker!Frank, I'm Sorry, M/M, Past petekey, Peterick is cute, Prostitute, Wow what have I done with my life, coffee addict!gerard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2018-08-18 07:02:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 45,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8153206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horsegirl_PanickedKilljoy/pseuds/Horsegirl_PanickedKilljoy
Summary: Frank is addicted to sex, and his job as a hooker. If one can even call it a job. It pays the bills, at least.Gerard is addicted to coffee. He works in a coffee shop, which is fitting.Of course they meet. Featuring Peterick denying obvious feelings and Mikeyway (because why not).Non-con because of several scenes where Frank is raped by johns. It is treated as part of his job, so not a huge part of the story.*12/1/16- This story is currently being edited but the last chapter should be uploaded soon. It is in no way abandoned*





	1. Frank-Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey. So in lieu of doing homework, this was created. Honestly this story is my child but I don't know how I feel about it...feedback is appreciated, as well as constructive criticism. Please?  
> Warnings: drugs, non-con, way too much gay (can there ever be too much gay), alcohol, and self-deprecating thoughts.  
> Disclaimer: Didn't happen. Don't own any people in this story.

Everyone is addicted to something. Gerard Way is addicted to coffee. Frank Iero is addicted to mindless, sweaty sex that helps to dull his state of living. The fact that he gets paid for it is simply an incentive to continue on his current career path.

He stands in a hotel room bathroom and stares into the dusty mirror that had most likely not been cleaned for months. He sighs.

_Fucking really_

The guy sitting on the bed just outside the thin bathroom doors is old, balding even. His face is set in hard lines and /shit/, those were usually the ones who want kinky shit, to tie him up or be tied up. And _fuck_ , if Frank never has to see another long silky feather he might throw a celebration. With whom, he does not know.

He sighs, and with one last resigned look at the cracked mirror he pastes on a seductive smile, smirks at the mirror and sashays out of the small room. Faux confidence radiates off of him, a front he adapts for his customers.

"So," he says in a cherry sweet voice to the man quivering on the neatly made bed, "What can I do for you?"

\----

One glance at the bed confirms Frank's suspicions- the man is passed out. He is tempted to take a quick shower to attempt to wash off at least a layer of the grime, sweat and come that constantly coats him, but remembers bitterly the scars he had gotten from the last time he had tried that. He talked one last look at the disgusting man on the bed, head lolling over on the pillows, and opens the room door.

 _Last chance_ , he tells himself, knowing that he is without a key to enter the room once the door shuts. He steps over the threshold and the door slams. One more meaningless John is erased from Frank's mind as he exits the hotel without even a smile to the girl at the counter. Why give a grimy fake smile in return for a forced and manufactured one. In some ways, his job and the girl's were not so different. Both, at one point, would have done anything to get out and live their dreams. Frank, at least, now barely remembered what his life was like before he became a prostitute. Or a hooker, or even an "escort" as the men with wives or girlfriends would often refer to him, guilt riding every crevice of their tired and worn down faces. He had resigned himself to his line of work and no longer resented it, but sex was not a thing of pleasure anymore. It equated to that of sitting in a cubicle and desperately try to meet a deadline or else you would be fired.

With relief evident in his gait, Frank walks into a shabby bar on the street corner. It is a sort of routine, if you will, for him to come to Pope's Tears if he has time after a job, in between one and the next. Of course, there are no set hours, fuck it isn't like Frank gets _breaks_ or health insurance, fuck no.

"Vodka, strong." He says to the bartender as he sits down on a stool. Usually, Bert mixes drinks but today a tall man with curly hair smiles back at him.

"You got it." The man says, and then turns his back in order to prepare Frank's order. He slumps down onto the stool, enjoying a few moments of peace before he returned to the streets. He is addicted to the feeling, but even addicts appreciates a break from their monotonous habit.

"Tough day?" The bartender asks in a futile attempt at a small conversation.

"As always." Frank replies, not even bothering to try and be cheerful.

"Fuck dude. Here, have some alcohol. I'm Ray, by the way." Ray hands Frank his drink and smiles easily when Frank takes it. "Frank." The man replies. Sometimes, he'll give places a fake name but not this bar. This is his retreat, his chance to trade one addiction for another.

"Thanks Ray." He adds, taking the glass gratefully and indulging in a long swig.

"Dude." Ray says sympathetically, without elaboration but paired with a knowing look. Frank did not want his sympathy.

"Where is Bert, anyway?" Another swig.

"Uh, he is on vacation for a few...weeks?" Ray leans closer to Frank, with a sweeping glance around the room. "He stormed out a few days ago. He said he would be back, but no one knows when or why he left." Ray pulls himself back over the counter and straightens up again. Frank mulls over this new development while nursing his drink. He wants more, needs more, but he has to remember that he can't work if he's drunk. Not that he hasn't broken that rule a time or two, but on principle he tries not to. He knows Bert, though, and when he's ready he will be back. Frank is confident that one day soon he will come to the bar after work and be greeted by Bert's boisterous voice and rough smile.

All too soon, Frank finds himself polishing off his third shot. No matter how much he hates to admit it, he knows that it's time for him to go pick up another sweaty, balding man or even a stressed out chick and follow them to their home, hotel room, or the bathroom of a grungy club. It's like rolling dice, sometimes he scores and picks up a rich person, more than willing to pay for a nice hotel. Most of the time, it's crumpled twenty dollar bills and grimy bathrooms. At least most of his customers are placid, thank God for small favors.

The chill breeze hits Frank as soon as he stepped through the door of the bar.

"Fucking cold," he mutters to himself, the words not meant to express anything but his frustration at the weather. He walks a short distance to a back street that only boasts a tall brick wall. Frank leans against it on the street corner, knowing that for some reason people searching for illicit sex are more likely to look where no normal person wants to be. Then again, no normal person wants to be in Frank's line of work. For nearly an hour he stands on the deserted street corner staring out at the street and idly smoking. A couple of cars drive by, but none stop. It's to be expected, Frank's lucky if he manages to snag or or two johns a night much less three or four. He's small and short enough to pass for seventeen or eighteen, sixteen even, which either causes people to turn the other way or draws them in. He's eighteen, but once he makes a catch reeling them in is easy.

Often, he finds himself waiting at a street corner until the sun rises and he stumbles wearily off to the shabby basement of his friend Bob's house. He pays rent, and Bob doesn't question how he comes about the money. It's better that he doesn't know, anyway. Not that Frank believes that he would be judged by Bob, merely the fact that Bob would probably cut or eradicate his rent in an attempt to help him financially, and Frank hates feeling like a charity case. Addicts don't deserve charity for their addictions, was his opinion, so he doesn't deserve charity to support him pursuing his.

Mud is flung at him when a blue Porsche skids by and he hastily attempts to wipe it off in the event that anyone actually comes looking for him. Finally, a grey Toyota pulls up. Frank recognizes the car, it belongs to one of his repeat customers. Gratefully, he draws nearer to the vehicle. The man driving the car is in his thirties and marginally fit, so Frank can hardly complain. Today, his hair appears freshly washed.

"I see you took some steps so I have a better grip," Franks says seductively. The driver's door opens and hot lips attack his. The man's lips rub the raw skin of his, biting and pulling at the chafed and tender flesh. A hand fits around the back of Franks neck and he willingly deepens the kiss. It is raw and unbidden, a desperate display of continued lust. Frank is fine with it, used to it. It is his job to get lost in rough sex meant to relieve a person of their pain, or be a pawn in acting out a long repressed sexual fantasy. He is not there for soft kisses and hands that trail gently over the curve of his tattooed hips. And fuck, he's glad. Emotions have no place in sex for him, it is purely an escape.

"Fuck," the man moans, his groans becoming higher pitched the farther Frank moves his hand up the man's inner thigh. "Use me," Frank whispers. The car door slams after he is pulled inside.

He wakes up on the floor of the man's home. After he pulls himself out of sleep, he applies hasty movements to dressing and cleaning up. He prefers not to fall asleep at a clint's home, but for the times that he does he has perfected cleaning up and sneaking away unseen. Not for his sake, he is used to the judging looks, but for that of his client. Frank prefers that the neighbors don't know what innocent Dave does in his free time, or what Martha uses her spare money for.

After he wipes the last bit of come off of his chin, he quietly slips out, money in hand. It is only six, so Frank slips back to the basement and rolls into his own bed. The warm covers envelope him, a strange contrast to the temperature of the air outside the house. He revels in it, sleepily promising himself a shower when he wakes up.

\----

"Bob, I'm fine I promise." Frank quirks his lips into a smile.

"Frank, you just dropped the box of fucking cornflakes. I'm concerned about your mental health." He alters his voice, mocking the voice most shrinks seemed to possess.

"Oh damn." Frank jokes. "My life will never be the same again. I dropped the motherfucking cornflakes." He throws up his hands in mock surrender, a laugh threatening to bubble out of his throat.

"You done fucked up." Bob agrees with a smirk, surging forward to lick Frank's cheek. The man laughs and bats his face away, while Bob grimaces.

"Fuck, dude, what is /on/ your face?"

"You'll never know," Frank's teasing voice rings out, Bob's spit still wet on his cheek. It's not like he minds, he's obviously had worse things on his face even just this morning.

"I don't think I want to know," Bob counters.

"You don't," Franks says seriously, but coats it with a coy smile sure to fool his friend. He grabs his hoodie and slides on his fingerless gloves. After ruffling his hair one last time in the hallway mirror, Frank looks longingly at the door. After daylight hours are nearing a close he finds himself missing the mindless bliss of filthy sex, the ease of simply letting himself get lost in hands grabbing at him and a wet tongue shoved down his throat. It had become a habit, something that is easy to accomplish without hardly thinking, even if a john is hesitant and unsure his instruction to them comes without thought. He has a response for everything without even having to formulate a sentence. A kiss or a roaming hand can often silence even the most unsure. And, Frank thinks, he is a damn good kisser.

\----

He stands in front of a short, middle aged man who is already breathing hard. This one will be easy, Frank thinks, just lay down and let him dominate. The man has that air about him, the air that makes him an obvious top. Personally, Frank can't have an opinion one way or the other in his job, but he has to admit that it is nice to let someone else do more of the work for once. But fuck, when he bottoms he's a power bottom and he knows it.

"How about you lose some of those clothes?" He whispers huskily to the red-faced man, who hastily nods and attempts to pull off his shirt. He catches it around his neck.

"Such a pretty body," Frank purrs, even though it is apparent that the guy drinks too much and doesn't get out enough. He lightly trails his fingers over the man's chest, hand stopping to pinch his nipple before continuing down. The man is panting now, and he has successfully rid himself of the hindering shirt and is working on disrobing himself from his pants and underwear. Frank continues to smirk and hover close to the man, employing his skills of astute seduction.

The man pulls off his boxers, and Frank allows himself to step forward. It wasn't necessarily the /feeling/ or the /emotion/ that has him addicted, not really. Those had been drained from the particular activity long ago. It is the fact that it is raw, mindless, and it _hurts._ It hurts his body, sure, but it also pains him mentally whenever he dares venture to think about how he is shamelessly selling himself for a few dollars to pay rent. Fuck, it wasn't like he makes much. He is addicted to the familiarity, the way a stranger's skin feels under his mouth. He needs it, as much as an alcoholic needs one more drink or a smoker craves one more pack, hell one more cig.

He needs the hot sweat that coats him throughout, the way that grime settles deep into his pores never to dissipate. He desires the desperate moans he can coax out of anyone, the whimpers as they come down from their high. He is addicted to the soft panting noise he is often left doing after he gets a john off, and the feeling of water cascading over him as he jerks off in the shower when he returns to the basement after a job, the built up tension leaving his body at once. He doesn't love the dirty excuses for humans that he seems to attract, the dirty and overweight men and women sprayed with cheap perfume and fake nails, hair doused in bleach and hair spray. He couldn't complain, wouldn't, just like a smoker wouldn't turn away a dirty cigarette as long as it still functioned as a cigarette.

Frank trails his lips down the man's stomach, kissing down from his bellybutton. The man releases sweet noises, possibly words, which Frank ignores. He doesn't care about the man's input, not if the words are paired with pleasured moans. Those mean that he is doing his job, and doing it well.

A hand lands on the back of Franks head, fingers twine into his sweat spiked hair. He feels the sharp free edges of the man's nails dig into his callused scalp, feels what seems like a drop of blood slide down his face. He doesn't care, he revels in the delicious pain. He has learned to love the feeling, he has found that you have to in his profession. To urge the man on, Frank allows a couple of faux moans to slip out of his mouth, the sounds vibrating against the man's tender skin. The hand clutching his hair tightens around the greasy strands, sweat mixing with grease and dirt. An unconscious squeak escapes Frank's throat, a startled sound that stems from a startlingly hard tug on his now messy hair.

A quick burning sensation arises and passes with a small hiss from the smaller man. Grubby hands push him back onto the bed, roughly, and clumsy. Franks allows himself to free fall, comforted by the fact that he would land on a soft bed. With a soft sign of content, he allowed himself to fall into his addiction.

\-----

He lets himself out less than two hours later, not even bothering to scrub off his body before dressing. He needs a drink. The sex had been fine, the man had gotten off and Frank had gotten paid, and now he is more than prepared to go spend it at Pope's Tears. He is yearning for a drink, yearning for something to take the edge off.

The early hours of the morning cause him to assume that he would bring in no more business until the sun set once again to reveal familiar darkness. Musty dimness welcomes him when he reaches his usual destination. Bar lights flash, some burned out but the others illuminating. Ray greets him from behind the counter, the bar empty excepting a homeless man sipping on coffee in the corner of the room.

"Bert still not back?" Frank questions as he takes a seat on a bar stool.

"No, sorry. We're starting to worry." Ray advances toward him, towel swinging from his waist.

"Don't." Frank deadpans. At Ray's confused look, he elaborates. "He always comes back. That's just who he is. A few years ago he left for a couple of weeks, but he came back."

"Oh," Ray laughs easily. "I'm kinda new, so that's reassuring. What can I get you tonight-uh, this morning?" Frank waves his hand in the universal signal of 'whatever'.

"Same thing. Fuck, I'm beat. Actually, make it whiskey on the rocks."

"Long night?" Ray asks sympathetically as he begins to prepare a glass. Frank shrugs noncommittally.

"Something like that." Ray hands him his drink, with Frank promptly downs. Cold, burning whiskey runs down his throat, its encouragement almost causing him to cough. The short man gestures for another, a request which Ray promptly fulfills. Frank doesn't know exactly why he is struck with a sudden need to drown himself in alcohol, but fuck it hits him hard. Another glass of whiskey is gone, and another appears. Frank begins to feel warm, fuzzy even , and he contentedly sinks into the welcome feeling. Minutes blur into long hours, one shot blurs into ten. His problems seem to slip away as the alcohol invades his blood and sedates his brain until he feels nothing but a warm sappy feeling melting through his bones.

The filth of the bar falls away the more he drinks, as does the filth of his entire life. Frank can barley feel his fingers, doesn't see the concerned gaze that Ray flashes him every few minutes. It doesn't matter, anyway. He'll be fine, he always is.

/What's one more?/ He reasons, but before he can ask Ray for it his vision becomes oddly hazy. Shapes blur into each other, a chair and a houseplant suddenly becoming one. He's too far gone in a drunken haze to question it, even as his eyes slowly slip shut. Frank's head hits the bar with a loud crash.

\-----

He wakes up to a pounding hangover. For a second, he ventures to open one eye just a bit, before quickly slamming it shut. The light burns his retinas, even his groan hammering into his tender ears. He doesn't want to breath, or move, or think. Tiny, persistent hammers pound into his skull without pausing.

"Hey, you're alive. Fuck, man you were out of it last night." An unidentified voice speaks to him, hardly even breeching the pounding in his brain. Frank grunts, allowing it to suffice as an answer. He hopes that the voice is Bob, hopes he isn't laying in a gutter covered in his own puke. That had happened once, after a fuck. The john had knocked him out and dragged him to a ditch alongside the road and left him. The son of a bitch hadn't even paid him first.

"Are you alive?" Definitely Bob. If he could move, Frank would breath a sigh of relief that he wasn't in a dumpster. That had happened too, he had woken up with 'WHORE' engraved into his chest, still bleeding. He still has scarring, lines deeply embedded in his skin that spell out the letters. He has mostly blocked out that night, sworn to forget it. Still, he remembers the sheer terror and burning pain that he woke up to, the total darkness of the night and the putrid stench of garbage surrounding him. The trickle of blood that covered his chest, his stomach, his bruised and lacerated arms. How he had crawled back to the basement in shame, not able to show his face at a hospital. He remembered how he had hidden the torn up skin, and then the faded words under shirts, or, when he was turning tricks, makeup. Sometimes the sweat displaces it or causes it to run, but by then no one is looking at his chest.

"Bob?" Frank's raspy voice cracks from his dry throat and he slits his eyes open, just a bit. A bit of light slips through the small opening of his eyelids and he fights to keep them remaining open.

"Yeah, kid. Shit, you look beat."

"I'm not a kid," Frank mumbles in a half hearted complaint.

"Yeah, yeah." Bob ruffles Frank's hair, and Frank doesn't have enough energy to protest.

"You'll always be my little brother."

"You're two years older than me, ya bitch." It hurts Frank whenever Bob says something like that, because if they are truly like brothers then Bob would know about Frank's night job. It wasn't that he didn't trust him, it was just that Frank was afraid of disappointing him.

"You love me, now come upstairs and drink some water so you can get rid of that hangover."

 _Not likely_ , Frank thinks, but his head hurts too much to speak more. Instead, he nods slowly and allows Bob to pull him up. He is limp when Bob grabs ahold of him bridal style and carries him up the stairs. Without Bob, Frank is certain that he would be dead.

After Bob coaxes water down Frank's cracked and dry throat and dims the kitchen lights, he sits at the small wooden table with the other man.

"Okay, man, spill. What the fuck were you doing last night? I got a call-" he waves off Frank's attempt to speak. "-from _Ray_ , who said 'hey, look I have a guy here who is passed out and you are his first speed dial. Can you come get him?' From a _bar_ , Frank, a fucking _bar_. Listen, you know I could care less if you drink. I could care less if you get drunk. But how about we make an agreement that I won't have to pick you up passed out from any more bars, okay? At least not at six in the morning."

"Deal." Frank groans, even at the minimal light emanating from the dimmed lamp in the corner of the kitchen.

"Fuck, I'm sorry dude. I probably caused you a lot of trouble." He rests his head in his arms on the table in an attempt to block out the light and sound.

"It's fine, dude, let's just try to avoid it in the future okay?"

"Yeah, that isn't a bad idea." It isn't like he hasn't had worse hangovers, but the fact that his best friend had to drive over to a /bar/ and find him passed out is just too much. Yeah, it'll probably happen again but he will make sure to alter his speed dial first.

\-----

By evening, Frank's hangover has dissipated to a dull throb and he decides that he needs the money, so at around midnight he leaves for "work". Bob waves to him as he exits the house, thinking that he is leaving to his night shift at the local Quick Mart. Frank has a suspicion that Bob checked into his story and discovered that it was false, but as long as he never brings it up Frank can't care less.

It is a warm night, unusual but not particularly shocking. Frank takes his time walking to his destination, taking a few moments to simply embrace the warm fall breeze. Not that seasons have much meaning in Jersey. Smog obscures the stars, but Frank's certain that he would be able to see them if it didn't. He is left standing in the warm night air, back digging into the textured concrete of the building behind him. He has chosen a different back street this time, one that he hopes more people looking for someone like him will gravitate to. He almost allows himself to sit, but no, he can't look like he's homeless because that will turn his customers away. He can't look too wealthy, either, he has to fit the stereotype of a prostitute or else no johns would come to him. If the police catch him turning tricks then he's done and he knows it, so he has a strict policy where if he thinks someone could be an undercover cop he refuses service. He can't risk potentially getting exposed, can't risk a fine or going to jail.

He is dressed in ripped skinny jeans, a somewhat old shirt, and messy hair. As he begins to shiver, Frank hopes that he makes money tonight.

\-----

Frank looks out over the expanse of deserted street. One streetlight twinkles in the distance, a dim light barely visible to Frank's eye. He hasn't gotten any business, it's now almost five so he is fairly certain that he won't. He holds on to hope, though, eyes wandering over the landscape. With a sigh, Frank begins his walk back to Bob's place. He doesn't allow himself to divert his steps to Pope's Tears, does't feel like he deserves it after what he had pulled the night before.

"Hey," a gruff voice sounds from behind him. Frank's heart jumps into his throat, he knows that kind of voice, that tone. Slowly, heart racing, he turns around to face the voice. He sees a man, tall and dirty with the fait whisper of a beard and large muscles bulging from his arms.

"You're a whore, aren't you? A little fucking whore." Frank considers back away, considers running, but he knows that this man could catch up to him in a heartbeat. The man steps foreword and roughly grabs his hair. He forces Frank down onto his knees.

"Suck it, whore."

 _Don't cry. Don't fucking cry._ With one hand the man restrains Franks head into place and with the other pulls down his pants. He forces himself against Frank's lips, into his mouth. Frank feels his hot, filthy skin pressing against the back of his throat. The younger man thanked God that by now he had a practically nonexistent gag reflex stemming from his line of work. It's filthy and he wants to throw up. This isn't the same as being paid to give guys blow jobs, this has no consent and feels like rape. It's not like this is the first incident that is like this, but none the less it hurts, his mouth stretched and burned on someone else's terms. He should be used to it, he should, but he still has to repress tears of anger and fear. This man can do anything to him, and there's no way he could fight back. He was helpless, completely under this strange man's control.

"Suck it harder, whore! Fuck," Frank can smell the alcohol radiating off of the guy, and he has a sneaking suspicion that it does nothing to impair his strength. The man grips his short hair as he fucks his mouth, and it is only after Frank feels the familiar sensation of hot, messy come streaming down his throat that the man tosses him away.

"Fag!" The man exclaims, pausing to spit on Frank before staggering away. If his mouth didn't still taste of the man, Frank would find it amusing that the man had never pulled up his pants.

He hurries home, hoping that he isn't too visibly disheveled. To his immense surprise, Bob is sitting at the kitchen table and sipping coffee when he slips through the front door.

"Frank? Why is there come on your shirt?"

 _Fuck._ Frank looks down, and his gaze confirms that there is in fact a glob of white gracing the front of his shirt.

"Uh, no reason?" Its a pitiful excuse, even to Frank's ears, but it's all he's got. Bob is staring at him, looking as if he is connecting wires in his thinking.

"Are you gay? Frank...are you?" He has no choice.

"Yeah. I-are you mad?"

Bob's face clears nearly instantly. "No, dude, I don't care who you like. I am kinda mad that you got some and I haven't gotten laid in months, but if you like dudes obviously i'm fine with it." Frank feels suddenly vulnerable, like a child.

"Thanks. That...means a lot. Uh, I'm gonna go get cleaned up."

"Sure dude." And that is that. Frank tiredly descends the stairs to the basement, a small smile blooming on his face. He might be okay.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Frank holds the pills in the palm of his hand, studying them. He isn't going to /take/ them, no not even as tempting as the small white pills are he will not take them. He has no desire to revisit that part of his past, not even with the pills so readily available. No, he's simply remembering how they feel, how they _taste_ -

"Frank! Get your ass over here!" It's Bert, he can tell from the tone along. Discarding his current train of thought, Frank jumps up.

"Here, dude. Fucking dope party." Bert has the decency to look proud at the compliment. He holds out his hand for one of the little white pills. Readily, Frank transfers a few to him in hopes that it'll lessen his craving for the substance.

"Where did Frankie get the pills?" A voice asked, seemingly from behind him but Frank couldn't tell. Bert smirked conspiratorially at him, before replying to the disembodied voice. "A man never tells his secrets, Spencer."

"Oh, c'mon. Frankie, can I have one?" Frank looks at Bert for approval. He shrugs.

"Sure, go ahead. But the rest are for us, you hear?"

Frank nods and hands one over to Spencer, who promptly downs it. He's seen Spencer on E before, and he _parties_. Back when Frank used to party too, him Spencer and Bert would paint the town red. Frank is glad that Bert has returned from wherever he stormed off to, now that Bert is back everything is easier.

"Frank, come here baby. I want to pretty you up, you're eyeliner's spreading." It's Bert, and Frank willingly complies, relocating to the couch that Bert is reclining on. He gingerly hands the pills to him, not quite trusting himself not to take them. He sits down in front of Bert, facing him. The other man licks his finger and carefully wipes it under Frank's eye, removing the excess makeup. He isn't wearing anything but eyeliner, and Bert had applied that for him.

"Almost-there, you're good." He draws back his now black finger and places a sloppy kiss on Frank's cheek before he gets up to go sell someone E. For a moment, he wants to try it again. Just one, just enough to give him a good high that will last throughout the night. He's sure that one won't get him addicted, not again. Not like last time.

"Bert baby," he calls in a faux-sweet voice. Before he can blink, Bert is standing behind him, his chin resting on Frank's hair.

"Yes baby?" His voice is so open, so welcoming and non judgmental. Frank swallows hard. He shouldn't. He shouldn't. He- "Can I have a pill? Just one?"

Bert frowns deeply, creases appearing above his startling blue eyes. "You know if not one to deny anyone of a good time, but are you sure Frank?"

He is. _I can handle it._

"Yes. Please baby?" Bert easily gives in and hands Frank a pill.

"Be careful," he warns, before disappearing into the growing crowd. Frank takes a breath, and swallows the pill.

\-----

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Frank shakes, his hands wrapped securely around his knees. Tears stream down his face, cheeks red and puffy. He feels like he's going to vomit, the weight of his stomach shifting and whirling inside in. He hates, this he hates it hates it. Lightly, Bert rubs small circles into his back.

"Shhhh, baby, you'll be okay. You'll be okay. Fuck, I'll kill Rob. What the fuck did he cut this shit with? Oh, fuck Frankie I'm so sorry. I guess it didn't effect me or Spence because, to be blunt if it exists we've tried it. But Frankie, fuck," he rambles, not paying attention to his words only hoping that somehow they cut through Frank's haze.

"Fuck," Frank repeats, having run out of anything to say. It hurts, everything hurts, and he wants to die, wants to end it now.

"Frank I have to call Bob. He'll-"

"No!" Frank says forcefully, offering up no explanation. The cold tile of the bathroom stall hits his back whenever he rocks into it, chilling him.

"Frank, I have to. I can't drive you, fuck I've already fucked you up enough we don't need me fucking wrecking my car 'cause I'm boozed up."

Frank only whimpers, words becoming too much of an effort for him to even think. Bert grabs his friend's phone out of his back pocket and finds Bob's contact. Frank can hear the phone ring. And ring.

"Hello? Frank? What the hell dude, it's like four in the morning."

"Uh, Bob? It's Bert."

"Bert." Bob's voice is reserved, his distaste for the man evident.

"Look, I have Frankie. He got into some bad shit and I can't drive him home. Can you come get him? Please?" He rattles off an address, only half focusing on the conversation at hand. He's more worried about Frank, who had now become practically comatose.

"Of course I'll come get him. What did he take? Oh God, did he..."

"Relapse? Yeah, look he had something. But we can talk when you get here okay?" After he hangs up, Bert sincerely hopes that their "talk" does not involve punching. He doesn't think he can handle that right now. But Bob is protective of Frank, even more protective than Bert himself is.

They wait, Frank clutching himself and muttering inaudible words over and over until they don't sound real anymore. Bert worries his lip, and he allows his hands to wander over Frank's body in large comforting circles. He can't believe that he let him do this, let him relapse. He should have fucking known that the shit was laced, he's never bought from this dealer before and he shouldn't trust him. Both are lost in their whirlwinds of self-deprecating thoughts until a shout sounds.

"Frank? Bert? Where are you?"

"Here." His voice is a hoarse whisper, just loud enough for Bob's ears to detect. The man hurries over to them.

"Frank? Frank, what's wrong?" His voice is worried, but soft and obviously controlled.

"Fuck...it hurts...my brain is melting..."

Frank is still shaking, still talking nonsense. His brain feels as if it is slowing evaporating in a type of pain-induced mist. He wants to die, he is certain that he is going to die. Any second, he will fall into a deep pit and never return. Quietly, Bob turns to Bert.

"What did he take? What did you _let_ him take?" Bert wants to protest, wants to plead that he didn't do it, but he did, he even provided the small white pills.

"He had some E." Bert admits, almost feeling as if he should hang his head. For Frank's sake, Bob controls his voice.

"Ecstasy? You mean to tell me..." He trails off, not sure what to say. _You know damn well what E is_ , Bert thinks, but does not voice his thought. He takes his hand off of Frank's shaking body.

"Look, you can kill me later but right now I think it would be beneficial to Frank if I helped you carry him to your car and you took him home to his nice warm bed."

Bob shoots Bert a dirty look and a promise that this isn't over, but resigns himself to crouching down next to Frank.

"Okay, we're gonna go home now okay? Okay Frank?" He receives no answer, and he decides to take this as affirmation enough that he can lift Frank up and carry him to the car. He shoots one more glance at Bert before the door slams behind him. Bert spares a long look after them. Frank is still shaking, sweat forming on his forehead and in his clenched palms.

"Hurts..." he whimpers, no longer able to tell exactly what, or even if it still did hurt, but having nothing else coherent to say. His brain feels as though it is overheating, melting, leaving him an empty shell void of thoughts and feelings. He feels _bad_ , feels ripped apart and hastily stitched back together before being torn apart again. He can't speak, can't feel, can't... He hangs his head foreword, dizziness overwhelming him. Bob's fingers clutch him tight, so Frank has no fear of falling. It wouldn't matter anyway, he can no longer hold up his head and his muscles are tense, he wants to relax them but is unable to. He falls foreword a bit, and pukes onto the sidewalk in front of Bob. Almost instantly, he blacks out.

\-----

"What were you thinking? Frank, you've been clean for _over a year._ And you just threw it all away?"

Frank shifts away from Bob, a frown deepening lines on his cheeks. He still feels the after effects of the night before, none of them pleasant.

"Look, I'm sorry. I am. I just...it was a mistake, a fucking big mistake. Last night was hell, okay? Absolute hell! Now, if you'll excuse me its almost ten. I have to get to work." He stares at Bob, hoping that he'll let the situation drop. He doesn't need this, but he needs to go make money and even if he feels like shit it doesn't mean he can't drown his sorrows in fucking a stranger.

"No, you can't just run away from this conversation. We need to talk about this. And I want you to stop hanging around Bert. He's bad for you Frank, very bad." It feels as if Frank has been slapped.

"You can't tell me what to do," he says coldly, before stalking out of the small bedroom. He needs the oblivion of filthy sweat, and he's going to track it down. He needs the hushed moans from a writhing John and judging looks from motel personnel. He needs the dark red circles that ring his neck and chest the next day that he doesn't even bother to hide. It's almost a stamp of pride at this point, an indication of what he does and that he does it well.

He wears a thin layer of light makeup to accent his already handsome facial features, and to hopefully lure potential customers to him. He looks like a whore and he knows it, but it's the look that he's honestly going for to attract the kind of filthy people that he does. His hair is styled with minimal gel, the kind that will come off at short notice. He needs to be prepared for any kinks that might be thrown at him.

Gravel crunches under his shoes and tiny rocks fly out from under his footsteps. He can't see more than a foot in front of him, the Stars blocked out by heavy smog. In the distance, he can hear the faint screeching of car tires and the shrill honks of irate drivers. The sound of footstep sounds out in the silence. The empty lot is large and dark, perfect for people of questionable people to travel to in search of a quick fuck. That's what he's banking on, at least, as he chooses a section of the chain link fence to lean against.

He's not far from the city, not by more than fifteen minutes on foot, however he's far enough away for his actions to be discreet.

He had one John that night, an older man that paid him before roughly shoving Frank to his knees so that he could give him a messy blowjob. His knees still stung from the gravel that dug into them. He can't say that he's surprised at the simple request from the man, most don't want more than a blowjob or a quick make out session of they aren't sure of their sexuality. It's the married men or the older out of shape gay men that want sex, the ones who have been living with constant fantasies that look to act out their repressed kinks. Women- they usually want sex, but with more emotion. Frank hates that, hates when he has to reassure or whisper sweet nothings into a woman's ears. He doesn't need that, he needs the rough friction that men provide. It is for this reason that when he sees an approaching shape he hopes that it is male.

He debates walking back to Bob's house and curling up in his basement bed. No. Bob'll just want to talk about the night before, and Frank just can't handle that. He can't handle anymore fucking fighting about his so called "relapse". Before he can regret it he calls Bert.

"Hello? Frankie?" He responds on the second ring, leading Frank to wonder if his friend was already using his phone. It's almost four, but Bert stays up late.

"Yeah. Hey, Bert, can I come over? Bob is pissed about last night and I just don't want to have that conversation with him right now." He hears a quiet yawn.

"Of course baby. Come on over."

"Thanks baby. Really. I know it's late."

"Actually," Bert laughs, "it's early. Now get your ass over here and cuddle me."

Frank wastes no time. When Frank opens the door to Bert's house, he finds the other man lounging in his underwear and a sweater on the couch.

"You are so weird," Frank comments while shaking his head in amusement.

"I try. Get over here and tell me about the drama." Frank gratefully slides his shoes off and climbs onto the couch beside Bert. He rolls over into the other man's chest and allows him to pull a blanket over both of them. Bert rests his arms around Frank, whose nose is buried into the crease of his neck. Their legs intertwine flawlessly.

"Bob's just scared I think. But I wish he would express it in a different way, instead of bitching me out. I know what I did was bad for me but-"

"Frankie." Bert cuts him off and places a small kiss on his ear. "It was mostly my fault, I gave you the E. I'm so sorry baby," he places another kiss on the other man's ear, chewing at it slightly before letting it go. If it was anyone else, Frank would have thought that he was making a move. As it is, Frank knows that it's platonic comfort that will advance for as long as it remains comfort.

They had dated once, but ultimately Frank is sure that they work out wonderfully as platonic soul mates. Bert enjoys random hookups far too much and Frank...well, Bert isn't exactly his type.

"I took it, so I mean it's my fault too. Can we please just wallow in our combined guilt for a while and watch Project Runway?" Bert smiles against the side of Frank's head.

"Yes!" He exclaims, sounding a bit more like an excited girl than he intended. Bert commands control of the remote only a few feet away. Frank snuggles into the warm body holding him, allowing himself to sneak a quick, chaste kiss from Bert. The pain in his knees is forgotten, along with the raw, used feeling that he has grown used to.

"Ugh," Frank wrinkles his nose. "I need a shower." Sleepily, Bert props himself up on one elbow.

"Can I shower with you baby? I'm pretty gross too."

Without hesitation, Frank nods. It's not like them showering together is new, Frank is all for conserving water and saving time. Also, Bert isn't bad to look at without a shirt on.

The men quickly strip of the little clothes that they have on and proceed to the bathroom. Bert turns on the shower, and, when Frank isn't paying attention, shoves the smaller boy in. Cold droplets of water collide with his skin, causing him to tense.

"Rude!" Frank exclaims, acting mortally offended at Bert's actions. The older boy smirks. Bert steps into the shower, gauging the temperature of the water before committing. Frank grabs the bottle of shampoo off of the shower of the shelf, and prepares to open it.

"If you weren't off limits I would fuck you into the wall so hard," Bert's whisper assaults Frank's ear, inciting a chuckle.

"And if I had no morals I would take you up on that offer. Also, if I would ever bottom for you,"

Bert exacts his revenge at that statement by snatching the bottle of shampoo from the other boy's hands.

"Hey! Bert, I was using that!" Frank lunges forward to snatch the soap out of Bert's hands. He secures the very end of the bottle between his fingers.

"Hey!" Bert laughs, and Frank pouts.

"Please?" He says with a faux pleading tone, eyes wide and lips stuck out.

"Frankie, your dejected puppy dog face doesn't work on me." Bert then proceeds to wretch the bottle of shampoo out of Frank's fingers and opens the lid. Almost tauntingly, he holds the bottle out of Frank's reach and proceeds to shampoo his hair. After he has luxuriously coated his hair in far more shampoo than strictly nessacary, he passes the bottle to Frank who promptly squirts some into his palm and then reaches out to coat Bert's face.

"Ow! White stuff on my face usually doesn't sting my eyes, Goddamn." He isn't mad though, Frank can tell. Bert almost never gets mad at him, and a little matter such as a handful of shampoo to the face isn't going to change that.

"And," Frank says proudly, holding up the bottle.

" _It's not tear free_."

Unfortunately, Frank's fun is cut short when he is forced to return to the gloom of his life outside of Bob's living room. Resignedly, he gives Bert a goodbye peck on the cheek and promises to call him soon.

"You fuckin better." Bert threatens, knowing full well that there is no need. Frank needs Bert to lift him up, and Bert needs Frank to anchor him when he floats too high.

Harsh light momentarily blinds Frank when he steps out into the outside world. In a moment, the instant brightness fades to a tolerable level. Frank glances at his phone for the time, all the while resigning himself to talk to Bob.


	2. Gerard- Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet Gerard.  
> Warnings: homophobia, gay  
> Disclaimer: didn't happen, don't own any band members in this story or otherwise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow okay here's part 2. Enjoy!

Gerard honest to God runs to work. Gerard _runs,_ / and Gerard never runs. He's sweating and panting by the time he arrives at the door of the coffee shop. Where he works. Assuming he still has a job, as he is now twenty minutes late according to his phone. Flustered, he walks through the door whilst attempting to maintain his composure.

"I'm so sorry I'm late, I got caught up in-"

"Dude," his coworker Pete cuts him off. "You are practically the _manager_ , you can be late. It's, like, and unwritten rule or something."

"But..." Gerard's sentence trails off as he realizes that he won't win this argument. "Fine," he concedes, "but when the real manager gets back I'm dead meat."

"Handsome dead meat," Pete replies cheerfully, and wanders off to prepare a customer's coffee. Gerard hustles to the counter and situated himself behind the cash register. He hates it, working the register is his least favorite job as it involves conversing with actual human beings, but he decides that since he was late he deserves it.

Fuck he wishes he didn't have such good morals.

A customer sidles up to the counter, a young woman with fiery red hair.

"What can I get for you?" He asks, the words leaving his mouth in a tumbled rush. She hums for a second, then smiles brightly at him.

"Peppermint latte with soy, please. Uh, sixteen ounce."

"Sure." He conveys the order to Pete, who grabs a cup. Gerard is woefully inarticulate in the art of social interaction, so he is left smiling awkwardly while he fumbles the money into the appropriate spots in the cash register. Pete shoots him an amused smile when he hands over the coffee, bypassing Gerard to give it directly to the girl. Honestly, probably a solid choice knowing how clumsy Gerard can be.

Patrick appears from behind him.

"Hey guys," he greets, a pretty much permanent smile etched onto his face. "I'll take over the register if you want. There is only so many flowers a guy on draw on someone's coffee before he's had enough."

"I'll do that," Gerard quickly volunteers, letting the fact that he was late and this was his self-inflicted punishment slip away. He is a comic book artist, after all, he should be able to draw a few flowers.

It turns out, drawing on coffee is substantially different from drawing on paper. It takes him at least ten failed attempts at the art before he accomplishes even one semi-decent flowers. And then someone requests a leaf.

 _It can't be that hard_ , he reassures himself, slowing and carefully beginning to draw the large outline of a stylized leaf.

 _It could probably pass as a pet rock_  he decides as he studies his finished product. He hopes that the customer likes rocks.

"Pete, dude, do you want to take this over while I go to the bathroom?"

Pete appears to his right, and as Gerard hurries off to the bathroom, his shame in tow, he hears Pete yell after him.

"Were you styling this after your childhood pet rock?"

Gerard huffs. So what if he was?

\-----

Having successfully escaped having to craft vaguely Identifiable leaves on coffee, Gerard escapes to the kitchen. He gives Pete his best innocent smile from his new location safely behind the curtain that separates the kitchen from the rest of the shop. He is extremely certain that if Pete wasn't working with a customer he would flip Gerard off.

He doesn't mind making orders, in fact he mostly enjoys it. It doesn't trigger his crippling fear of social situations, and that is completely fine with Gerard. He immersed himself with preparing orders as they are yelled to him, one blending into the other. It's only Patrick, Pete and him working today, and he is glad that the shop is not bigger or they would be severely understaffed. He knew that the actual manager, Jamia, would wander in eventually to "check on things" but not actually help. Pete's shout sounds from behind him.

"Gerard, come help me draw this strawberry!"

Gerard runs.

"Baby, no-"

Gerard says into the phone, but is cut off.

"Fucking no. I'm done with your excuses! Get your ass home."

"Babe, the guys at work need my help. Jamia didn't even show up today," he pleads, his voice echoing off the ceramic walls of the bathroom.

"I don't care about "the guys"! Look, if all you fucking care about is work then I don't know if I can do this."

The phone line goes dead.

Gerard sighs deeply. He's tired of their constant fights, tired of the fact that they never seem "in love" anymore. He is tired of the fact that even though they are only dating Lindsey thinks that she controls his every move.

A look at his face in he mirror reveal even more deep lines and the faint hint of a scraggly beard.

_Fuck. I shouldn't look this way at twenty four._

It's not worth stressing over, he decides, as he could focus on at least five other things to stress over. With one last look at the bags under his stark brown eyes, Gerard leaves the small bathroom.

"Dude, we are just closing up. Everything okay with the girlfriend?"

The man forces a smile. "Of course. I can't believe Jamia didn't show up today."

"Dude, I know. Or fucking Brendon." Pete makes a face.

Gerard smirks. "I think him and Ryan had a long night. His phone was turned off, and you know Brendon. I think he's convinced that his baby-sorry I mean his phone-will die of separation anxiety if he turns it off."

"Nah dude," Pete replies, smirking. "I think /Brendon/ would die of separation anxiety if he turned his phone off."

Gerard gives it to him. "Good point. I doubt he would last a day without his phone."

"Or his boyfriend's dick," Pete adds, flipping a towel up onto the counter.

"So eloquently stated. But I'm sure that Ryan is essential for Brendon's survival as well." Gerard throws the towel into the bucket, roughly three feet away. He attempts to make that glaringly obvious. Pete grins.

"At least Ryan's dick is. Hey, Patrick, will you wash those cups for me?"

"Lazy ass." The man in question shouts from across the room, but he complies. Unlike Pete, Gerard is certain that Patrick won't have a work-induced heart attack from washing four coffee cups.

He sighs, pressing the fight with his girlfriend off of his mind. If Lindsey wanted to fucking dump him, he dared her to do it. It would hurt like hell, but at least it would be over and done with instead of these near constant fights that they couldn't seem to avoid. He knows that she doesn't love him, he's known that for a while, but she's clung tightly to a doomed relationship to prove to himself that he is worthy of someone else's affections. He's not even sure that he's in love with her, but he is definitely telling himself that he is. He needs coffee.

"Pete, do we have any messed up orders still laying around? I need a fucking buzz."

"So I'm here washing cups while our get to recline in your caffeine addiction?" Patrick jokes, threateningly holding up a ceramic cup. Gerard cringes in mock horror.

"Oh no! Not Patrick with a cup."

While Patrick sticks out his tongue in mock defiance Pete hands Gerard a mug of what he assumes to be coffee.

"Sorry man, it's all we've got. Pumpkin Spice mocha, I think?"

Gerard takes a sip. It tastes like ass, but he can already feel the caffeine buzzing through his veins, fueling his addiction.

"It'll do," he chokes out over the strong taste of cinnamon coating his throat. He takes a note of the approaching dusk through the large bay window, then remembers that yet again he will only return home to more fighting.

He knows that he has to go home, eventually at least, so he bids goodbye to Pete and Patrick and begins the short walk to where he parked his car. He already wants more coffee, really caffeine in any form will suffice. His previous buzz is already past its peak, and he needs more.

He always needs more.

\-----

Gerard opens the door to see Lindsey kissing a strange man. His breath stops in his throat, causing him to choke on his own saliva. She has him pressed up against the marble countertop, his tongue shoved deeply into her open mouth.

"Well," his voice is hoarse, breath ragged. Lindsey spins around, hand flying up to cover her kiss-swollen mouth. "I guess we don't have to argue anymore," he continues, unconsciously retreating backward. Her mouth gapes open, opening and closing repeatedly until finally settling on open.

"Uh, Gerard. You're home early. I thought you had to work all night?"

"No?" Even to him it is a question, uncertainty ringing his words. "Lindsey, I know you don't love me. I think it's best if we...break up."

"Oh. Y-yeah." Lindsey offers him a tentative smile that progresses into a small hug. "Thank you Gerard. Thank you for not freaking out on me."

Gerard feels light, free, as if a weight had been lifted off of his chest. He had never realized how much Lindsey weighed him down until he let her go.

"Now," he says, his hand masking his smile, "how long have you two been a thing?"

The guy almost blushes and looks at the floor. Lindsey lights up, a smile spreading across her face.

"Mark and I have been together for almost three weeks. He's so sweet..."

He allows her ramblings to fade into the distance of his attention. It hurt, he cant deny that it does hurt that she had been with someone else behind his back but at the same time he knows that she needed a new man and he needed to let her have one.

"Thank you Lindsey," he says, cutting through her words. He leaves to climb the stairs, leaving a confused look on his ex girlfriend's face.

"I broke up with Lindsey," are the first words out of Gerard's mouth when he steps into the kitchen at work the next day.

"Dude," Pete says, "what a coincidence. I actually broke up with the cash register today so you'll have to cover it."

"Your sympathy is downright astounding," Gerard deadpans on his way to man the cash register.

"I try," Pete winks at him, and then continues to fill orders.

"Is Patrick coming in today? The fucker needs to help us."

"I think so," Pete replies, a suspicious smile ghosting on his face. Gerard catches it, but does not comment.

"We can only hope," he mutters, inciting a laugh from Pete.

The shop is relatively empty, it's not like they get much business anyway, so Gerard is free to leisurely wash his hands and tie on his mandated stained white apron, with the logo of the coffee shop embroidered in the chest pocket. It's fairly nondescript and all that Jamia can afford for now. Although, Gerard knows that she has a spare stack of them sitting in the back room.

Clean.

He mutters about the injustices of the workforce for a solid minute, before giving up and actually attending the cash register. Exactly what he has been attempting to avoid, and if Pete hadn't been shooting him a death glare from across the room he may have delayed his inevitable fate a few minutes longer. As it is, Gerard reluctantly stands behind the small metal box, under the chalk menu that holds tell tale traces of the last day's menu under the fresh writing. He has no doubt that Patrick had written it, perhaps the night before, because only he puts precise circles over his "I"s and curls his "y"s.

He fiddles with the clasp on his watch, simultaneously praying for a customer and hoping that none arrive. It's odd, his total aversion to social interaction. He isn't afraid, exactly, more like attempting to appear normal, conform to society's expectations, is too much effort to be worth it. It doesn't help that he feels as though everyone is always watching him, judging him no matter what he is doing.

"Excuse me?"

A customer. Gerard quickly snaps to attention, and turns to the woman.

"Hi, what can I get for you?"

The woman orders-for the life of him Gerard does not know what, he simply jots it down on his notepad as she speaks and then immediately forgets. He then hands it to Pete, who immediately complains about Gerard's short hand even though Gerard _knows_  that he can read it, then takes it to the kitchen where Ryan will make it. (Or Brendon, if Ryan can convince him, usually with a kiss and a promise of something more when they are alone.)

Or at least Gerard hopes they will wait until they are alone, with those two he is never really sure.

He smiles the woman and hopes that she will back up a bit, she is uncomfortably close to the counter and it's beginning to cause his palms to sweat.

She leaves, finally, but only after Pete calls her order. Gerard relaxes a bit, enough so that he can breath normally before looking the next customer dead in the eye.

With a slightly terrified expression, the young woman hurries away.

_Fuck._

Normally, he's not quite so off putting, usually he can carry on a five minute conversation without appearing flustered. Fuck, the stress is overwhelming him, causing him to act even more socially inept than he is. He needs something, anything, to take the edge off. It doesn't help that the only thing that makes him feel alive is a steady caffeine buzz.

Not exactly helpful to his stress levels. Lately, he's been too stressed to even work on his art, and as had no inspiration.

"Gerard! Uh, we need you in the kitchen."

From the shout he assumes that Patrick has arrived, unless Pete had invented a way to teleport only Patrick's voice.

He arrives to mass chaos. Pete is curled up on the floor in an overdramatic position, and Patrick is standing beside him with a calculated look that bestows controlled panic.

"Guys? What's going on?"

"How did this happen? All we sell is fucking coffee!" Pete wails, flinging a despairing look at Gerard.

"We seem to have run out of coffee beans," Patrick explains. "It would appear that Jamia forgot to confirm the next shipment and, um, here we are."

"Oh," Gerard squeaks, "Ah, well...we don't have any?"

Patrick shakes his head solemnly. "Not a single coffee bean."

At the words, Pete tears up a little.

_Fuck. I have to be the manager because Jamia can't bother to handle it._

"Okay," Gerard says, authority growing in his voice, "Pete, you're being overdramatic, this is not the end of the world. Patrick, would you please go put a sign on the door that says we are closed for the rest of the day due to technology malfunction? Thanks. I'm going to call the company and put in an order for enough coffee beans to sink Jamia's fucking ship."

It's much like a war cry, and without question Patrick and Pete do as Gerard has suggested. Once they are out of sight, Gerard sinks back against the wall. He resists the overwhelming urge to bang his head against the wall to unconsciousness, however as good of an idea as it may be he _definitely_ doesn't trust Patrick and Pete to handle this. Fuck, he doesn't know if he can even handle it and he's more the boss than Jamia ever was. The first rational step, he supposes, would be to call their supplier and order more beans.

He can do that.

He draws in a shallow breath and, hands shaking, picks up the corded phone attached to the back wall of the kitchen. He finds the number of the supplier, scrawled in Jamia's hasty handwriting, in the ledger on the counter. He punches in the number, and waits.

\-----

"Ma'am, you need to leave." Patrick sounds desperate, and Gerard knows that Patrick is probably the kindest person that he knows. He looks extremely uncomfortable demanding that the woman leave. Her face is red, her voice almost screaming, leaving Patrick almost in tears.

Luckily, Pete appears from the kitchen.

"Excuse me ma'am, but I'm afraid that you have to leave. Now. Before you upset my boyfriend any farther."

He slings his arm around Patrick's shoulder. For his credit, the other boy looks mortified.

 _Well that's new_ , Gerard thinks, and continued to watch the scene unfold.

The woman becomes even redder, Frankly Gerard did /not/ think that that was possible, and gets up in one jerking motion.

"Fine." She says, nose upturned. "I'll leave you _boys_ to your filthy actions."

The woman stomps out of the door.

"Gosh, she should have tipped,"

Pete mocks, clearly glad to be rid of her. He reaches out with his thumb and wipes away the few stray tears on Patrick's cheeks.

Gerard walks toward them, abandoning his cover of the partition.

"So are you guys a thing? Because if I read the rules right, relationships among co-workers are strongly forbidden."

"No." A blush slowly forms on both boy's faces, a deep red that blossoms pink.

"Okay then," Gerard raises his eyebrows, but does not comment further. "I fixed the coffee situation, an order of coffee beans is on rush order and should be here tomorrow morning to afternoon, so we might have to open a bit later."

His coworkers look visibly relieved, Pete even going so far as to run forward and jump into his arms for a hug. Patrick looks a bit jealous, Gerard thinks, but it could also just be his imagination as the look passes quickly. "Well," he intones briskly, hoping to quell some of the uneasiness in the room. "I believe that we have two options; one, clean this place and make it look presentable, or two, take a much, much needed break."

He widens his eyes, practically pleading for the guys to pick the second option. Luckily for him, they comply to his wishes.

"Sure, mister responsible," Patrick teases, "we all need a break and we know it."

Gerard releases a sigh of relief, and gratefully sits down at a table. Almost without thinking he pulls out his latest comic project and begins to stare at it in frustration. He can't seem to get past this certain important scene where the villain fatally wounds the hero. In Gerard's comics, the villain almost always wins. This is, he reasons, because sometimes the "evil" is better than the "good". Someone's interpretation of good could be another person's interpretation of evil. Also, villains are fucking badass.

Lately, he's been in a sort of creative drought, pencil simply finding no inspiration on the paper. His characters have become stagnant, unmoving in the world that he has created for them. He tries to force them to move, force them to step one foot in front of the other and accomplish _something_ , but much like his characters, his creativity is frozen. Much like ice on top of a pristine frozen lake, his ideas are frozen still and unmoving.

Gerard half-heartedly draws the rough outline of a face, then attaches a slightly out of proportion body. It is surprisingly realistic for his usual style, however he still cannot seem to cultivate an ingenious idea for any sort of plot line.

All too soon, the alarm built into his five dollar watch he purchased from Walmart chimes, reminding him that he is required to open the store and allow customers inside. Pete and Patrick hear the chime too, and a collective groan fills the formerly silent room.

"Goddamnit," Gerard mutters, slamming down his pencil onto the wood surface.

"Can we just have a day off?" Pete inquires, looking at Gerard with wide-open eyes and pouted lips.

"Pete, as much as I know Patrick can't stand your puppy dog eyes, I am immune to such powers of seduction so you still have to work."

"Damn," Pete comments under his breath until Gerard shoots him a mocking warning look. He reverts to his previous expression, pouting his lips a bit more.

"Try that on your boyfriend," Gerard suggests coyly.

"He's not my boyfriend!" Pete protests, but none the less walks over to the after mentioned man. Patrick simply stares down at him in fond amusement.

"Whatever you say sweetie,"

Pete glares at him straight in the eyes.

Gerard studies him thoughtfully. "You know, you're a pretty adorable ball of rage when you're angry," he comments, as if Pete is a piece of art that he is writing a thesis on.

"And maybe you'd be marginally okay looking if you shut the fuck up," Pete retorts, from afar as he knows Gerard has an uncontrollable tendency to "jokingly" throw the plastic water cups that the coffee shop has far too many of.

"You'll live another day, Wentz, as long as you flip that sign on the door."

With an indignant huff, Pete does.

\-----

"That will be two seventy eight," Gerard tells the man offhandedly, and holds out his hand.

In it, a hundred dollar bill is placed. Gerard stares at the man for a second, before slowly opening the register.

"Uh, sir are you sure you don't want to pay with a smaller bill?" He maintains his tone in an attempt to avoid conveying his futile attempt not to break a hundred dollar bill for a fucking two dollar and seventy eight cent donut.

"I'm sure," his voice is brisk, confident. Gerard represses a groan and digs into the cash drawer for four twenties, a ten, three ones and twenty two cents.

Brendon chooses this exact moment to walk through the glass front door. Gerard shoots him a despairing look, but hands the man his change.

"Have a good day," his tone is forced, but the man does not notice. Gerard holds his breath until he hears the door slam closed.

"Fucking retail," Gerard mutters, his hand still on the cold metal box.

"It might kill you someday," Brendon jokes, having appeared at Gerard's side.

"I need coffee," Gerard groans, already feeling the icy grip of caffeine deprivation. Brendon smirks.

"What, you already have your Ryan fix?" Gerard's comment enlarges Brendon's smirk.

"At least I have a boyfriend-oh, sorry, I guess you would have a girlfriend huh?"

Gerard's look shoots daggers.

Brendon smiles at him, whist backing away. "You love me," he reminds Gerard, as he slips off, probably to find Patrick and tease Pete about something or other.

 _Fuck_ , He needs to rid himself of the stress weighing down is creativity and his life.

"Brendon?" He calls slowly after the retreating man. Brendon pauses, and then bounces back to Gerard.

"Yeah?"

Gerard pulls in a deep breath. "Uh, so I've been incredibly stressed lately, even _coffee_ hasn't helped, so, um how do I get rid of it?"

Brendon studies him, his eyes zeroing in on the stress-induced bags under Gerard's eyes, his unwashed face and hair that was obviously combed in a rush.

"Okay," Brendon begins, drawing out his words as if considering them. "This is going to sound crazy, like I'm joking, but I promise that I'm not."

Gerard nods rapidly. "Anything," he begs fervently.

"Well, when Ryan and I were in a tough spot in our relationship, I did something bad. It was bad, and we fought bitterly over it, but you know what? It was freeing, utterly freeing, and I don't regret it at all."

"Yeah?" Gerard is beginning to grow impatient at his friend's obvious attempts at drawing out his story. "What did you do?"

Brendon's wide smirk returns. "I went to a hooker."

Gerard can feel his jaw drop. "And Ryan didn't kill you?" He asks incredulously, completely ignoring the fact that Brendon was suggesting this for his /stress/ problem.

"Nah. After I showed him a few things that I learned from the experience he shut up real quick," Brendon says, a shit-eating grin gracing his face. Gerard rolls his eyes, but quickly returns to full blown panic.

"You can't be serious, though? You want me to go to a fucking _prostitute_?"

Brendon nods eagerly. "Worked for me. They seem to frequent back streets and street corners, if you take my advice."

"Uh..." Gerard is, by definition, speechless. "I-honestly, a hooker? Really? Do you think that I've sunk that low?"

"My friend, if you haven't now then you surely will someday. It's like a rite of passage or something. Now if you'll excuse me, I believe the kitchen is calling me. Or maybe it's Pete."

Brendon sashays through the metal door leading to the kitchen, leaving Gerard in shock and morbid curiosity. He feels torn. On the one hand, he thinks that he is crazy, vile even, for simply entertaining the thought of paying a hooker to fuck him. On the other, a small part of him is screaming that he needs this, he needs the release, and perhaps he will gain some perspective in the process.

"A hooker," he mutters in disdain, ignoring the part of him that is urging him to take Brendon's advice, no matter how ridiculous. The vast majority of the time that Brendon proposes seemingly outrageous schemes, they work splendidly. As much as Gerard wishes that he could deny that, it's true.

Brendon comes through the kitchen door yet again, this time with a flour-steamed apron. Where the hell he got flour in a coffee shop is beyond Gerard, in addition to the fact that he really does not want to know where Brendon found the substance. The last time that Gerard managed to dig up a bag of flour, it was the host to a large family of dead rats.

It had got him wondering if that was the "mystery meat" that rude customers received in their soup.

"Goddamnit Brendon," Gerard informs the other man.

"You're welcome." Brendon says cheerfully, his voice an octave higher than normal. "I'm right and you know it. Find your perfect man tonight, alright?"

Gerard stares at him, this time managing to keep his mouth closed. Brendon does not seem affected.

"What? It's obvious you're into guys Gerard. A child could tell."

"Oh," Gerard comments, like the genius that he is.

"Watch out for STDs," Brendon says gleefully, and that is the exact moment that, very conveniently, the radio is turned up to a deafening level.

By whom, well Gerard certainly didn't know.

He cannot believe that he is doing this. He, Gerard, a worker at a fucking _coffee shop_ and a failed comic book artist is driving to the darkest, most unknown to him part of town in hopes that he will find a prostitute. The vast unknown of the situation scares him, as well as the potential threat to his actions.

 _It's okay. You'll be fine. Breath. Breath._  Fuck, how is he going to ask for what he wants if he does find someone? He can hardly take a customer's money without shaking, how the fuck is he supposed to approach an unknown stranger and ask them for sex? He feels so awkward, so out of place in the dark and dingy back streets of Jersey. Almost like a small child walking into school for the first time, he feels completely alone, isolated, but also terrified of what could be lurking around him. Horror stories of serial killers posing as whores flash through his mind, guns firing at innocent johns, leaving gunpowder in their wake.

A man stands, leaning against the brick wall behind him. He has a smirk on his lips, eyes faraway and bored. His hair is messy, and his clothes are torn. Deep down, Gerard knows how this man makes his money, he has no doubt. Still, he holds off, waits a bit before approaching him. What if he is wrong in his assumption? He would look like an asshole and probably invoke the man's wrath in the process.

He takes a deep breath and advances toward the strange man.

"Hello?" He inquires timidly, ready at any moment to wheel away and run. The man looks over at him, a smile almost immediately planted onto his kiss-swollen lips.

"Well hello there. And what can I do for you this fine evening?" His voice takes on a seductive tone, one that reels Gerard in, hook, line and sinker.

"Um, I, uh a friend told me that I needed to do this for m-my stress." He mentally chastises himself. The man doesn't need to know that much about him, for he is a stranger to the man as the man is a stranger to him. Now that he thinks about it, the man looks young, more like a teenager than an adult. _Fuck,_ he hopes that this isn't illegal in age as well as the nature of the encounter.

"A friend, huh? Well, what's your name sweetie?"

Gerard could laugh, for the young man looks nearly concerned for him, like he actually cares about anything but the money.

 _He's only doing this for the money,_ Gerard finds himself thinking, reminding. He can't deny that the young man is handsome, feminine features making him almost pretty. "What's yours?" He shoots back, albeit nervously.

"Frank. Your turn," Frank drawls, a slight Jersey accent rolling easily off of his tongue.

"My name is Gerard."

Frank smirks, running a hand over Gerard's chest. "Well /Gerard/, where do you want to do this?"

Gerard swallows. _This is really happening._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thx for reading through all of this nonsense. Don't forget to comment


	3. Frank-Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow okay here is part three of my child. Enjoy.  
> Warnings: gay, drugs, violence, sex  
> Disclaimer: didn't happen, don't own people. Of any kind. Especially band members.

The best word that Frank can think of to describe the man in front of him-Gerard, he said- is bemusing. Not that he's never had a hesitant John; hell, most of them are, but Gerard is undisputedly _adorable_ , his awkward nature tantalizing to Frank. He knew from the second that he saw him that he had to _touch_  him, run his tongue along his jawline, leave bites on his pale white collarbone.

"Um, maybe a motel? Is that okay?" Frank is startled for a moment, Gerard has taken so long to answer that Frank has almost forgotten the question. He quickly slips back into his working persona.

"Of course, mind if we take up your car?"

Mutely, Gerard nods. Frank follows him back to the black Jeta that is presumably Gerard's, and slips into the passenger seat. He looks at Gerard's shaking hands and wonders if he should be driving.

"Take a right and you'll come to a Motel 6," Frank suggests, having a knowledge of every single motel in a fifty mile radius of Bob's basement. He has to know, most customers don't want to be fucked on a filthy leather car interior.

"Okay," Gerard still sounds nervous, but Frank takes a guess that now that he is in a more familiar setting-his car- it has allowed his nerves to calm a bit.

Gerard seems to be in a sort of a daze the entire way to the motel, so Frank gently pulls him into the building, helps him find his wallet to pay for a night, and pushes him into the elevator.

"Are you okay?" He whispers into Gerard's ear, reaching out to clasp his hand.

"Y-yeah. I'm good."

Frank gently palms the room card out of Gerard's tightly clenched hand, and reads the number. 210.

He searches the row of doors, until they arrive at room 210.

"Okay, here we are." Frank is a little concerned at Gerard's lack of response, but he does not speak again until the door closes and Frank has pushed Gerard onto the queen bed.

"Alright, so before we start I'm just going to lay out my rules to get them out of the way. Condoms are required, you have to pay beforehand, no permanent marking, and absolutely no knife play or anything involving fire. Sound good?"

Gerard looks a bit intimated. "Do people really ask you to do stuff with knives and fire? That seems a bit...extreme."

Frank shrugs offhandedly. "Sometimes. So, one night with whatever you want is two hundred, I'll stay the night for another hundred. Blowjobs are fifty, one hour of whatever is a hundred."

Gerard opens his wallet and hands Frank two hundred dollar bills. "I wish I could pay for you to stay the night," he says apologetically, "I just don't have the money."

It's odd, Frank thinks, that Gerard cares if he has a place to stay the night. Quickly, he shakes off the thought. He tucks the money away in his pocket, and then his seductive smile returns.

"Alright, hot stuff, what ever am I going to do with you?"

Immediately, Frank chastises himself for being perhaps too foreword for Gerard, too risqué. He backs off a bit.

"Just tell me what you want and I'll deliver," he husks, pushing Gerard deeper into the mattress.

"Uh, I've never done this before. With a guy I mean," Gerard admits. Frank isn't surprised.

"It's okay," he assures him, "just give me an idea of what makes you feel good."

"Okay. Um, there is something that I like but it's...it's pretty weird."

Frank is curious, what kink can Gerard possibly have? He hopes to God that it doesn't involve piss, honestly that's one of his only deal breakers. The smaller man leans down to purr softly in Gerard's ear.

"What is it?"

He feels Gerard begin to relax under him, begin to grow comfortable with the whole ordeal.

"Okay, so I've always been obsessed with vampires and the like, so I uh like...biting, and drawing blood I guess."

This shocks Frank a bit, but it's nowhere near the worst thing he's done for his job.

"Okay," he reasons, "do you like to do the biting or do you want me to bite you?"

Gerard chews on his lip, staring hungrily at Frank's mouth.

"Bite me," he husks, eyes dark with lust and desire. With no hesitation, Frank pounces. His teeth close around the pale pink skin of Gerard's neck, harder than he normally would to produce a hickey. He ignores the persistent tightening of his jeans, focusing only on Gerard.

"Just relax," he reassures the other man softly. "I'm a trained professional, you can trust me."

Gerard laughs feebly at the small joke, but none the less allows Frank to pull off his shirt. Frank feels him suck in his breath when soft lips trail down his chest, leaving a line of drool down the large expanse of skin.

"I'll take good care of you," the smaller man whispers, almost more to himself than to Gerard. His charge looks as though there is not a doubt in his mind that Frank will stay true to his word.

\------

Frank lays on the edge of the bed, perfectly content to lazily examine himself in the mirror. He is completely and utterly spent, his body relaxed and undeniably well-fucked. His eyes are droopy, sated, and his body debauched. He cannot believe that this man, sleeping softly beside him, body curled up like a small kitten, could so thoroughly wear him out.

Hickeys and messy spit adorn his pale neck, he observes, and his hair is mussed and tangled. Ends stick out at odd angles along with sections slicked down to his scalp. His mouth contains the copper-like taste of Gerard's blood exchanged from the other man's lips. He hasn't even bothered to dress, doesn't want to think about leaving the hotel and returning to the cold basement that he calls home. It's not his fault that Bob never fixed the goddamn heating system.

In a languid motion, Frank rolls over to smile at Gerard's sleeping form. The man had been so undeniably awkward and adorable, Frank nearly grinned at the thought of it. He had not had a John insist on blowing him-hell, swallowing even-since he can remember. Gerard had asked, insisted really, to make sure that Frank got off as well as himself. Frank had been taken aback, had tried to refocus the attention on Gerard, but the older man had insisted. Gerard had been so hesitant, so soft and unsure of himself. Frank found that endearing, sweet. Now, all Frank wants to do is let himself fall into an easy sleep as opposed to leaving the shitty motel. It wasn't that the bed was particularly comfortable, or the room particularly warm, but /Gerard/ was there, and fuck if Frank wanted to leave him.

He knows that he has to, that he can't dwell on Johns after the trick is up. He knows mixing work and pleasure is a guaranteed recipe for disaster, and he avoids it at all costs.

Still, as Frank leaves he can't resist leaving his phone number on the complementary stationary provided by the establishment.

The sun has almost begun to rise when he slips through the back door of Bob's house, careful not to make any loud noises that will consequently wake his friend. Bob doesn't get angry, but Frank might just wake up to find that all of his favorite cereal mysterious got eaten when he _knows_  that the box was nearly full yesterday.

Frank tries not to think too hard about Gerard, tries to push the experience to the back of his head, where the rest of his business-related memories lie, abandoned. There's just something about the man, something caring-fuck, he has to stop thinking like this. Resolutely, Frank turns his mind to other matters, such as the fact that although Bob and he had reached an agreement-Frank will be checked for drugs whenever he walks out of Bob's door-their tempers are still a bit dicey. Frank knows that Bob cares about him, and that's why he's pissed out of his mind, but he still can't fathom why _one small pill_  of ecstasy was such a big deal. To be fair, Frank is fairly certain that he puked on Bob's shoes and muttered confessions that he would rather never saw the light of day. Like that one time when-

Maybe he needs to think more before the next time he begs Bert for drugs.

Probably.

He turns his mind to other matters, such as undressing quickly and rolling himself tightly into his large warm blanket that exists curtesy of Bob.

 _Yeah_ , he thinks groggily, in the state he gets in where he's edging the line between unconsciousness and consciousness. _I'll figure it out in the morning._

What he is referring to, he does not know.

\-----

Frank wakes up to an empty house. For a brief moment, he wonders where Bob could possibly be at the ass crack of dawn. _Especially_  since Bob would rather rip off his dick with a pair of pliers than wake up before ten. To be fair, Frank is the same way when it comes to the evil rays of the sun in early morning. He considers the new trend that seems to have ignited- his friends mysteriously leaving without him having any prior knowledge of it, but decides to shrug Bob's absence off. Perhaps he went out for coffee as he often does, rudely neglecting to invite Frank to come along.

Bruises from the drunk man several nights ago are turning yellow, and a sickly blue. He doesn't want to think about it, doesn't want to think about the fact that he knows firsthand how much _worse_  it could have been. The bruises serve has a constant reminder, at least until they begin to fade back to his normal skin color. Blood residue from the night before cakes his cheek and collarbone, reminding him of Gerard.

Why does everything on his body have to be a fucking reminder of something? He hates it, hates how he can't seem to _forget_  anything. He can't forget he's a whore, either, thanks to the scarring across his chest.

Somehow, he is not surprised when he ends up in front of Pope's Tears. In the daylight, the atmosphere of the bar is shifted. It's lighter, the room isn't so dark, but somehow the people drinking seem more desperate, fleeting glances to the door as if they think that they might be caught. It's morning, after all, before noon. Frank would be ashamed of himself if this wasn't an often occurrence.

He sidles up to the bar, and takes a seat on one of the many bar stools. Behind the counter is Bert, as usual, and also Ray.

"I thought Bert would have kicked you out by now," Frank jokes, his comment directed at Ray. The man turns around to face him, and smiles.

"Not yet, although I've been waiting for it. I think old Berty here just enjoys his "supervisor" position too much."

Bert flips him off from his spot leaning against the back counter. Ray pays him little heed.

"So, Frank, what can I get for you this fine morning?"

"You know, you probably shouldn't remind people that they are drinking before noon." Frank comments dryly, wry humor in his voice. Ray shrugs.

"I mean, when they get to this point they usually don't leave."

He has a point. "Get me a shot of whiskey, I guess."

"Hard day?" Ray asks sympathetically.

Frank shoots him a withering look. "It's only morning, but yeah, I don't expect the rest the rest of my day to turn out great."

Bert chuckles from the corner. "But Frankie dear, isn't your job fulfilling every one of your wants and needs?"

Frank scoffs. "Yeah Bert, how about you put your money where your mouth is and get the fuck into my bed, show me just how fulfilling my job is."

"Anything for you baby," Bert comments, causing Ray's face to twist into a confused look.

"Friends," Frank commented, sensing Ray's unasked question.

"On. I'll have that right up for you,"

Frank grunts his appreciation. Bert wanders over to him, and takes a seat on the bar stool directly beside him.

“So, Frankie dear, you look a little beat from last night. Care to tell?”  Frank knows that if he doesn’t, Bert will just keep pestering him until he finally breaks. It’s a quality of Bert’s that Frank alternatively loves and hates depending on the situation.

“I had an…unusual john last night, I guess.”

Bert looks curious, slings an arm around Franks shoulders. The warm skin of his arm connects with the chill skin of Frank’s neck, sending a shiver through both men.

“How was he unusual?”  Frank looks Bert directly in the eye. “I got off.”

“…oh.” Bert chuckles, he knows how Frank’s job works. He was in the business for a while, but, Frank fondly remembers, his slight business endeavor was driven to an abrupt halt when he was arrested for possession not a month after he started. After that, Bert has stayed out of the prostitution industry for the most part. From what he and Frank have discussed, he doesn’t want to risk being arrested for prostitution as well as possession. Neither Bert nor any of his friends would have nearly enough bail money to free him, and Bert is not fond of the idea of months or years in jail for such trivial crimes.

“What was this mystery man’s name?” Bert drawls, obviously enjoying himself. Frank leans over to lick from his jaw to his earlobe, leaving a trail of wetness where his tongue slid over Bert’s skin. Its random, yes, but it’s a gesture that the two often share as a sign that the other is still there.

“Gerard,” he answers finally. “It was weird; I don’t think I’ve ever had a john with a blood kink before.”

“Ooh, exotic.” Bert says, a sly smile in his voice. “If I remember correctly Frankie, I believe that you weren’t opposed to a bit of spilt blood mixed with fucking.” His Cheshire cat smile grows as Frank slugs him in the shoulder.

“That was one time, asshole. And it wasn’t like you weren’t into it either.”

His smug smile not drooping a bit, Bert slides off of the stool.

“Call me tonight,” he throws nonchalantly over his shoulder as he walks back behind the bar.

Frank sighs as reality hits him like a sledgehammer. In a few hours, he will have to don a slightly less clean change of clothes and go pleasure filthy men and woman, only to make a few bucks.

He knows that he needs it, though. Honestly, Frank does not know what he would do if suddenly he was unable to indulge in his deliciously filthy encounters. If he got arrested, thrown in jail for who knows how long, to sit out his days in a tiny cell crammed with inmates out to get him. Frank shudders at the thought, for it is an extremely real possibility if he isn’t careful. If he picks up one undercover cop, his life would be thrown to a screeching halt.

“One more,” he mutters to Ray, his throat bitter from the thought of arrest.

\-----

Frank is tired. He's exhausted, all he wants to do is crawl into his bed and never, never wake up. He feels as though his skin itself is glued to the floor, dragging him five steps backward with every step forward. Quicksand.

Fuck, he wants to curl up on the damp concrete. He wants so collapse on the ground with no heed for how he looks doing it, wants to just blend in with the close to death herion addicts that frequented the corner he has stationed himself on.

He needs the money, though. He needs money more than he needs to preserve his already fragile health and he knows it.

A delicate wish for an easy night floats through is nude, more an impossible hope than reality. Silently, he hopes that tonight he finds someone who wants to have his way, hell even tie Frank up, as long as it means that he doesn't have to deplete the rest of his precious energy.

A few cars speed past, obviously already having predetermined destinations.

He sleeps on the ground that night, too tired to get up and walk back to Bob's basement.

\-----

Bert wakes him up.

"Dude, you're alive. I thought you...to be honest, I was scared you slipped again."

Frank squints at the oncoming sunlight. He is shivering, a byproduct of sleeping outside. His legs feel cramped, bruises building on his back. He hurts, and he cannot stop shivering.

"No, of course not. How did you find me? Fuck, Bob."

His eyes become impossibly wide at the thought of Bob's reaction to him sleeping on a fucking road all night.

Bert smiles cautiously, his thumb stroking Frank's cheek.

"Woah, slow down." His voice is gentle, still tinted with genuine relief. "I sell to these guys, remember? I was just coming out to do that when I saw you."

 _These guys?_  it takes Frank a moment to remember the addicts that surround the corner.

"And I called Bob, I told him you stayed over at mine. He'll still be pissed, fuck, I'm such a bad influence, he's not wrong, but hopefully he won't smite you as bad as if he knew you risked your life passing out on a fucking street."

He's choking up, Frank can tell. Quickly, Frank speaks. Bert rarely cries, and it hurts Frank internally when he does.

"You might be a bad influence, baby, but you're my bad influence. Now let's get me off this fucking street, so I can go to the bar and drown my sorrows that I made a grand total of zero dollars last night."

Bert looks horrified. He shakes his head adamantly. "No bars for you. Usually I'm a huge supporter of drowning ones sorrows in a bottle of gin, but looking at your condition currently you're going nowhere but my house."

Frank wants to argue that he is perfectly fine, but Bert is already standing, and then leaning down and scooping Frank up bridal-style. He's beginning to think that he has no choice in the matter.

He sighs. "Take me away, noble prince."

Bert smiles and does just that, not setting him down until they reach his car parked four blocks away.

\-----

"He's just different, Bert. I don't know how to explain it."

"Frank," Bert reminds the young man patiently, "Gerard isn't the first John that you've had that's been sensitive, you know that."

"Yeah," Frank growls in frustration, more at himself than at Bert. "I just-I don't know, baby, he just seemed like he cared about me like he shouldn't. It was odd, that's why I noticed it."

Bert snorts. "Frank, you practically keep records in your mind about everyone that you fuck. You notice _everything_."

It's true, even if Frank would rather not admit it. Although he quickly forgets details of his various customers, the little things that he's noticed about them stay stored in the back of his mind in case he needs to revisit them in the future.

"True," he concedes, "but Bert, he _insisted_  on getting me off. Not just to arouse him, just for the pure reason that he thought since he had come I should come as well." Bert sighs and runs his fingers through Frank's admittedly soft hair.

"Aw, that's adorable. But just because he's an innocent muffin doesn't mean he wants to bone you more than he already has." The problem is, Frank is certain that although _Gerard_  may not want him, he certainly wants Gerard. He's adorable, but also fucking hot and _fuck_  Frank's verging becoming hard just thinking about the other man. Like he's still in high school.

Bert smirks. "I can almost read your dirty thoughts, nasty boy."

"Oh shut up." Frank pulls it off as a joke, although he knows his attraction is very real.

"For real though, you can barely keep it in your pants for the guy."

"If I wasn't so tired I would totally hit you. But Bert baby? Can we sleep now? I told you what you wanted to know, about Gerard."

Bert easily gives in with little pleading.

"Sure Frankie. Sure, let's get to bed."

Frank knows that it's the middle of the day, but unsurprisingly a concrete road does not provide the best nights sleep. And Bert, he knows, got no more than an hour of sleep the night before if he was dealing so early.

Bert lifts the covers of his bed to allow Frank to slide in. Bert slides under the covers after him, arms wrapping around Frank's chest to clutch him protectively.

"I almost lost you last night."

Bert's low voice vibrates into Frank's ear. He sounds like he is close to crying, so Frank decides not to mention the many times that he has come much closer to death.

"But you didn't, I'm fine." Frank replies, his sole purpose to calm down Bert. He is his rock, the sole reason that Bert has not fallen off the deep end into addiction or depression.

"I know. Don't scare me like that, okay?"

Normally, Frank would tease Bert about sounding exactly like Bob, but today he sounds too vurenable.

"Okay, I won't. I promise."

Bert holds Frank a little bit tighter as they sleep, completely content in each other's arms.

\-----

Frank doesn't get anymore business for almost a week. He understands-he's been off his game and it shows. He also knows that he can only get so much business before it inevitably dries up and he is left it of a job. But fuck, no income for an entire week hits him like a runaway Boulder.

Rain is pouring from the sky, drops hitting his hair and staying for mere seconds to glisten in the feeble light of the nighttime. He feels strongly strands of his hair sticking to his cheeks, hair spray and rain creating a sticky mess on his forehead. He hears the splash and eventual thud of each step, puddles lining the uneven sidewalk as far as he can see. Frank is shivering, shaking, his hands curled tightly into his ripped tee shirt in a desperate attempt to find warmth. Nails dig into the skin of his chest, bruised from hickeys and tender from hitting a bedpost nearly two weeks ago. The memory of that night causes him to tense, and subsequently feel his tight muscles; frozen from the harsh chill of the air. He keeps his head down low, even with the water dripping from his hair.

Frank looks up at the storefront he is currently walking toward.

 _Three more blocks,_  he thinks to himself, knowing full well that he shouldn't be spending his limited income on alcohol but simultaneously knowing that he is going to anyway. He returns his eyes to the saturated sidewalk and continues his shift shuffle to Pope's Tears. Without thinking, his teeth grip his lip ring and worry it to distract himself from the cold. Hit teeth accidentally clamp down on the fragile skin of his lip and he almost yelps at the blood that he tastes.

It reminds him of Gerard. Gerard, with his amazing body and adorably charming personality. Gerard, who he should not even remember by now, still lurking in the forefront of his mind.

"Fuck," he growls, kicking at a stray puddle and sending water flying in all directions. A harsh breath of air escapes his throat. "Fuck," he mutters again, softer this time, more resigned. He knows that he wants Gerard's body, wants to run his fingers over his supple skin. He wants to lick the older man's neck, before biting into it and drawing blood. He wants to kiss Gerard, and lick the blood from Gerard's neck into the back of his throat. Frank desires to push Gerard down, make him surrender to him. He wants to roughly pound into him, make the other man his.

Fuck. He's started to get possessive, and when Frank gets possessive he will fight for what he wants.

_He wants Gerard._

"Fuck," he comments in a conversational tone to Ray when he takes a seat at the bar.

"Well, good morning to you too sunshine," Ray wanders over to him, looking low on energy yet strangely calm.

"Morning? Shit, time flies. Uh, rum."

The bartender nods and leaves in search of a clean glass. Bert chooses this moment to saunter over and take a seat next to Frank.

"Haven't seen you in a while. Bad week?"

Frank nods. "A whole lot of nothing."

Bert winces in sympathy. "Nothing?"

Frank shakes his head, the reality of the week finally settling down onto his shoulders. The feeling of Bert's head rests on his shoulder, torsos pressed together. Frank enjoys the moment of complete peace until his drink is set in front of him.

"You know, I have a harder time believing that you two are not dating every day I see you Frank."

Rays comment pulls Frank out of his own mind, and for that he is grateful.

"Nah, Frankie boy here has a crush." Bert informs Ray, his face plastered into a smirk. Ray nods, much like a parent listening to a child describe a plan that the parent knows is doomed to fail.

"Oh shut up," Frank chastises his overly affectionate friend with an acute lack of sleep obvious in his voice. His mind burns for sex, it has been deprived of his addiction for much too long, but his body burns for sleep that he has consistently deprived it of.

Frank downs the shot of rum in one gulp, ignoring the intense burning sensation that overtakes his throat. A drop of the alcohol penetrates his lip where he had bit it earlier, causing a sharp intake of breath.

"So who's the lucky girl?" Ray asks, a glass held is hand. Frank chuckles and steals Bert's drink.

"You don't need to pretend I'm straight. I fuck men for a living. Sometimes women, sure, but around here? Mostly men."

"Okay." Ray pours him another shot of rum. "Who's the lucky guy then?"

He doesn't seem weird about it, or like he cares wether Frank has the hots for a guy or a girl, and for that Frank is grateful.

"No one," Frank emphasizes before Bert can open his mouth. He licks his lips, remember the copper-y taste of the other man's blood. He wants it, he is surprised to realize, he wants to once agin be able to taste Gerard's blood.

Frank is fully aware of how weird this is. He's fucking sick, a fucking blood kink. God, Frank can hardly believe himself. Falling for a John then developing a fucking _blood kink_. Goddamnit he was being different than himself lately.

"Uh Frank? You off in your own little world there?" Bert joking in waves a hand across the younger man's line of vision. Frank resists the urge to bite at his fingers.

"No. I'm here."

With a feeble laugh, Frank stirs his drink that Ray had brought him.

\-----

The next night, Frank knows that he needs to turn a trick if he wants to be able to pay rent for the next month. He dresses up in the futile hope that someone with more money than usual is looking for a whore that they can pretend is just another simple fuck. To accomplish that, he must shed his usual dirty exterior that turns people like that away, and wear clean, neat clothes as well as immaculate makeup.

He leaves the basement shortly before eleven. Early, he hope it will pay off.

Something draws him to the street corner where he had met Gerard.

 


	4. Gerard- Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mikey appears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings this chapter?? What have I become.  
> Anyway, let me know what you think.  
> Disclaimer: Didn't happen, don't own bands. Please don't sue me *hides*

Gerard paces the length of his room. He has attempted to block the whole experience out of his mind and simply get on with his life, but _fuck_ is that hard. Ever since the morning that he woke up in a strange motel room, his brain taking a few moments to remind him why he was there, he's felt guilty. Wrong. Gerard has never considered himself to be a religious man, not by any means, but somehow he's just felt completely and utterly _dirty_ since the night he paid Frank to-relieve his stress, as he now refers to it, the actual act being too much to bear thinking about.

He wants to call Mikey. His brother always knows how to fix things, how to make mistakes right again. Gerard is afraid of his brother's judgement, his shame at Gerard's actions. He cannot deny that Frank was hot, fuck, Gerard would even venture to call him mesmerizing. That fact alone isn't enough to lessen Gerard's guilt, however.

He makes the decision. He picks up the phone.

Gerard, being the hermit that he is, has Mikey on speed dial. He is aware that it is slightly odd to have your brother on speed dial instead of a close friend of boyfriend, and seeing that he had neither of those less Pete, Mikey is it. And despite his love for his slightly flighty friend, he doubts he would trust him with a toaster much less an emergency.

Gerard is close to ripping off his fingernails by the time that Mikey picks up.

"Hello, Gerard?"

He steels himself for whatever reaction the he's going to get for his upcoming news.

"Hi, Mikey. Um, I need to tell you something. R-right now, before I chicken out."

A concerned tone permeates Mikey's usually stoic tone of voice. "What's wrong?"

"I-uh, Mikey I did something bad. Like, really bad." He can't bring himself to say it, admit it.

"What? Gerard, are you okay? Are you hurt? Talk to me."

"No, I'm not hurt. Uh, Brendon told me-"

Mikey cuts him off, which Gerard thinks is pretty bold for someone who wants to hear what he has to say, and just moments earlier was encouraging him to speak.

"Brendon! No good idea come out of his mouth, I swear."

Gerard takes control of the situation back. "Yeah, uh anyway I've been super stressed lately, you know, and I was talking to Brendon about it-"

"Never talk to Brendon about anything," Mikey comments confidently, and, Jesus, Gerard this is the most that his little brother has talked in his life.

"Mikey, if you ever want to hear what happened you need to shut up." It isn't unkind, and Gerard knows that Mikey won't take offense.

"Sorry," his younger brother says, a trace of sarcasm present in his voice. Better than concern, at least.

"So, Brendon told me to go and find someone to, uh, help me. A hooker, I guess. And-I did."

Mikey is oddly silent.

"What?" Gerard questions frantically, his despair in Mikey's reaction obvious.

"Nothing, Gee. I'm a little surprised, sure, but it's certainly not the end of the world. Shit, I though you did hardcore drugs or something. You can't scare me like that."

"Sorry, but Mikes I fucked a whore! How is this not a big deal?"

"You used a condom, right? I mean, it was a guy, right?"

Now Gerard is mortified. "Uh, how did you know? About the guy thing?" The older man is slightly tired of coming out to his friends at this point.

He can practically hear Mikey roll his eyes over the phone.

"Gee. You gave me your old computer when you left, remember? That you never cleared the search history to? Straight guys don't search 'coc-"

"Stop right there," Gerard demands, a rosy red blush overcoming his cheeks. "Obviously I should have blamed the search history on you."

He hears shuffle through the receiver. "No offense, but I don't think our parents would buy it. Everyone's always suspected that you're gay, you know, they've just waited for you to figure it out on your own. I mean, no one has that many pictures of Bowie on their wall."

Gerard feels a breath of air leave his chest. "Hey, you don't have to be gay to appreciate Bowie as a musical genius. But you mean to tell me that if you had just told me this beforehand I wouldn't have had to hire a fucking prostitute?"

"That's not why you hired him," Mikey points out, humor returning to his voice. "It wouldn't have helped anyway. You're a stubborn little shit when you want to be."

"So are you," Gerard counters, consciousness relinquishing to the point that Mikey made.

"Seriously though, brother dear, you are overreacting about nothing. He probably doesn't even remember you, what with how many other lonely people go searching for his undivided attention. What's his name, anyway?"

"Shut up," Gerard says, paired with a laugh. And then, "his name is Frank. He was, uh, really nice."

"Someone's got a crush," Mikey sing-songs, much like a high school kid. Gerard groans.

"I do not have a crush on Frank! I might crush your head in if you suggest something like that again, though."

"You wouldn't do that to your only, dearest brother," Gerard concludes that Mikey is right, but he does not admit it.

"Whatever, Mikes. As lovely as this conversation has been, for both of us I'm sure, I've got to go to work. Send mom and dad my love."

"'Course. Bye, Gee."

Gerard hangs up feeling significantly better about the whole ordeal. Thank God for younger brothers, even if he does want to strangle his on occasion.

\-----

"Patrick," Pete wines, drawing out the name until it is almost unrecognizable.

"No," Patrick replies cheerfully, bouncing around the kitchen while washing excess coffee mugs.

"Patrick, you have to tell me. Please?"

Sometimes, Gerard thinks that Pete is a fourteen year old in a eighteen year old's body.

"No, you weren't even supposed to know that I have something I'm not going to tell you."

"Hey, it's legal to eavesdrop in thirty-eight states." Pete says seriously.

"Yeah, but only if you're part of the conversation, which you were not." Patrick sets a mug in the sink, which falls over and causes a stack of plates to tilt precariously to the right.

"I heard my name! You were talking about me, so I have a right to know,"

Gerard smiles at this, he has a sneaking suspicion of what Patrick had been talking to Brendon about earlier, and he is completely positive that Pete will be ecstatic about the information if Patrick can ever work up the nerve to tell him. Personally, Gerard hopes that he does.

"Not every conversation that includes your name is about you, Pete. I could have been talking about the Pete that works at Downtown Deli, couldn't I?"

"Yes," Pete reasons, "but you were talking about me. You always say my name like that, soft and lower near the end."

_Woah, he notices stuff like that?_

Patrick simply begins to whistle a tune that sounds suspiciously like old Christmas music and walk away through the kitchen door. Pete pouts and follows him, determined to receive answers if it kills him.

"Fucking idiots," Gerard mutters good-naturedly.

They'll figure it out sooner or later, he's positive.

He finds himself thinking about Lindsey, which ultimately leads to an unwanted train of thought regarding Frank. He's jittery, he needs coffee to calm him done and ultimately make him forget.

No one will notice one cup. He'll clean the coffee machine, he always does, even when he slips into the shop at two in the morning to sink into a caffeine-induced haze. He'll lock the door with his stolen key and no one would know. It's not like the security cameras actually function, he'd learned that when he had requested to see them and all that was on the tapes was black static.

He's so tempted.

Hesitantly, and whilst keeping a close eye on the kitchen door, Gerard quickly pours coffee beans into the machine. He has to be fast, or someone will see him. Impatiently, he waits for the machine to heat up and begin turning the beans into real coffee. He's anticipating the caffeine buzz, bouncing on his toes in suspense.

He needs it, needs it.

Just as he is reaching out to fix a setting on the coffee maker, Pete walks through the door. Gerard jumps away from the machine, guilt written all over his face.

"Uh," he stutters out. "It's not what it looks like?"

"Patrick!" Pete calls shrilly, "Gerard is making illicit coffee again."

Brendon comes bouncing toward him. "Not cool, man. Do we need to have a talk about your obvious problem? With-" he stops to take a breath and add to comedic effect, "-coffee?"

Gerard shakes his head. "Please don't."

"Patrick," Pete calls again, this time with less of a deafening shrill tone to his voice.

"Pete, gosh, I'm coming." The man in questions bursts through the door. "Alright, who died?" When he sees no blood or dead bodies, he frowns. Pete points and accusing finger at Gerard.

"He's trying to drink coffee again."

"Pete," Patrick says slowly, gathering his words, "we work in a _coffee shop_. Why is someone _drinking coffee_ a surprise?"

Gerard knows that for as big of a fuss that Pete is making about the ordeal, he'll wait until later to seriously talk to Gerard about it. Thank God-Pete is the only one who's noticed his overwhelming reliance on the drink.

"Fine." Pete shoots Gerard a look that he knows means a discussion later, and instantly returns to his usual cheerful demeanor. "So 'Trick, tell me the story of that dick pic again..."

"Oh my God, that was one time, okay? One time!" Never the less, Pete's very own 'Trick launches into the story of how he just wanted to know what taking nudes was _like_ , and it isn't his fault that they somehow _mysteriously_ got leaked on the Internet. Honestly, Gerard wouldn't be surprised if Pete had something to do with that ordeal.

"-so I cried in my room and ate a whole tub of ice cream. Happy?" Patrick shoots Pete a withering look, which the smaller boy turns a blind eye to.

"You forgot the part where your mom found them on your phone," Brendon points out, a semi pout on his face.

"Yeah," Pete agrees. "And you forgot how you were grounded for two weeks even though you were eighteen."

"Jesus," Patrick throws up his hands, "do all of you know this story better than me? Gerard, what do you have to add to my own fricking story?"

Gerard shrugs. "I got nothing, man. I've never even heard this story before today."

Patrick looks relieved, and Brendon smirks at the sly look on Pete's face.

After Pete drags Patrick out of the door to show him a new something or other that opened across the street, Brendon turns to Gerard with a grin.

"They're totally gonna fuck."

Gerard raises an eyebrow. "You mean they're not already fucking?"

"Nah. They're both too shy to actually bring it up."

Gerard shakes his head and laughs in amusement. "Idiots. Oh, thank you." He adds when Brendon hands him the cup of coffee that had been festering in the coffee maker.

"Don't think I don't know about your little addiction," Brendon cautions, "but we all have things that we feel like we need above anything else. Yours happens to be fairly harmless."

Gerard takes a thankful swig. "What's yours?" He chokes out, the coffee burning his throat. Brendon cocks his head.

"Ryan," he answers finally. "Mine is Ryan. It used to be alcohol, I'll be honest, but now? Addictions change, Gerard, just remember that."

The coffee addict is taken aback by Brendon's sudden serious attitude, a drastic change compared to his usual chipper self. Brendon is always joking, it's odd to see his eyes drawn and voice low.

"I'll remember," Gerard promises. He takes another small sip of his coffee, his brain already beginning to dream of the day that he could leave his house without first have a cup in an illusion of repressing his anxiety. Honestly, the night with Frank helped him loosed up. Relax, even if just for a few short hours. He had needed it, and Gerard almost found himself thinking that he needs it again.

"Hey Brendon?" Gerard says, almost embarrassed to utter the words that he is planning to.

"Yeah Gee? Fuck! This coffee is hot," Brendon mutters a string of swears under his breath that Gerard can't quite make out, so he forges on with his statement.

"You were right. I-it helped."

Brendon abandons nursing his burns from the scorching coffee to stare at him, face breaking out into a smirk.

"I can't believe that you did it. I mean, I know that I suggested it but I didn't think that you had the guts to actually do it."

Hastily Gerard takes a long drink of his coffee to hide his rapidly reddening cheeks.

"I guess I did," he mutters.

"So," Brendon presses, "What was it like? Did you like it?"

"Uh, um, look! The coffee machine is on fire!"

Gerard takes Brendon's temporary distraction to run. Well, not run because he is a dignified young man with a pride in place, but 'quick, shuffle-like intense walk' wouldn't be a bad description of his newfound gait.

When his phone chimes, Gerard has no doubt that the text is from none other than Brendon.

What can he say? His phone died.

\-----

After a good two hours of changing his mind back and forth, Gerard finds himself in his car and driving to a street corner.

The street corner where he picked up Frank.

The night is dark, and strange sounds emit from all directions. Gerard tenses, even in the relative safety of his car. He's on edge, afraid of what he is about to repeat and afraid of this part of town. It's unfounded apprehension that keeping his eyes darting out of all of the windows and his shoulders tensed. Even the fact that he knows what he is about to do makes him anxious.

 _Fuck_ he needs coffee.

He reaches the corner, squinting into the darkness in order to see if Frank is here. The outline of a shape begins to form in his line of vision, definitely human. As Gerard's eyes adjust to the murky light, it becomes apparent that the rough outline is indeed the alluring man from before. He parks his car, and attempts to compose himself before opening his door. To his surprise, Frank is standing not five feet away.

"Looks like someone just couldn't get enough," Frank drawls, and yet again Gerard is drawn to his accent.

"Come back for more, pretty boy?"

Wordlessly, Gerard swallows stiffly and nods. A smile lights up Frank's face.

"Well then, _Gerard_ , where are we going this time?"

"My house?" Gerard squeaks out. Frank falters for a moment before pasting his smile back on.

"Of course, sugar. Now if you don't mind, I'm going to get in your car."

Gerard can tell that Frank is trying to warn him of his actions, so that Gerard does not get freaked out or nervous. He appreciates the sentiment, and nods his consent for Frank to hop into the passenger seat. He himself clambers into the driver's seat, waiting for Frank's smug instruction. Then he remembers that they are going to his house, and _holy shit_ Frank is going to his house. Frank is going to be in his bed. It's enough to make a guy hyperventilate, and that's exactly what Gerard does. Even when he catches Frank's amused expression in the mirror, he doesn't stop shaking.

Gerard pushes Frank onto the bed, his hesitancy leaving him in his lust for the other man. Frank moans under him, his hands racing to throw off Gerard’s bothersome jacket and claw off his shirt.

“Fuck,” Gerard whines, wanting Frank to just touch him. Frank complies with the other man’s wishes, his hand drifting down to unbutton Gerard’s jeans.

“You are entirely too clothed,” Gerard husks, his hands working at Frank’s shirt. Frank smirks.

“That I am,” he agrees, “But tonight is about you.”

Gerard’s protests are cut off by Frank’s sloppy kiss.

\-----

 

Gerard comes down from his high slowly, savoring the feeling of being pressed against Frank’s sweaty chest. To his credit, the other man is running his fingers through Gerard’s hair, waiting for his world to come back into focus.

“You’re so good,” Gerard breaths, opening his eyes. Frank smirks down at him. “And you’re so hot.”

Gerard shakes his head at that, but sits up, resting against the headboard. Frank pulls himself up as well.

“You don’t have to get me off, you know.” Frank murmurs, “you pay me to get you off, not the other way around.”

Gerard is honestly startled. “Frank, why wouldn’t I get you off? You-we have the most mind-blowing sex; why wouldn’t I return the favor?”

“Because the money that people pay is so that they can use me for my body, get off, and go home. Not so that they can suck my dick that’s “probably full of diseases”.” He makes air quotes around the last four words, his tone bitter.

“Did someone say that to you?” Gerard asks, concerned about how Frank is treated. He nods.

“Old Asian guy. But Gee, it’s no big deal. I know what I’m signing up for every night that I leave Bob’s place.”

“Who’s Bob?” Gerard asks, horrified to realize that he is jealous of this unknown man who is probably Frank’s boyfriend.

“He’s my roommate. I’m crashing in his basement until I can find my own place. Which is code for I’m never leaving his basement.” Frank chokes out a laugh at his comment.

“So, he’s your…friend?” Gerard has to be sure, he has to be in case he ever works up the nerve to inform Frank that he is falling for him.

“Yeah, we go way back. Since high school, we met when some jock had his head shoved into a toilet. I punched the guy, and then he chipped my tooth. Never did have the money to get it fixed.” Frank opens his mouth and points to his chipped right canine. Gerard’s gaze begins at the ill-fated tooth, but inexplicitly travels up to his piercing blue eyes. Fuck, why does he always do this?

“Let’s go downstairs and, um, eat.” Inwardly, he congratulates himself on his not awkward at all excuse to leave his bed before he jumps Frank yet again. He is fairly certain that he hears a small chuckle from behind him, but he can’t be sure as he is already halfway out of the door. He hears the soft thud of Frank’s bare feet hit the carpet, and leaves the room satisfied that Frank is following him.

Gerard skids to a halt when he sees the occupant of his reclining chair.

“Hello, brother dear,” Mikey greets, looking up from his phone. “I was just waiting for you to get home, but it appears that you are already here. I knocked on your bedroom door but maybe you were a little…caught up in something? Or someone?”

Gerard glances guiltily behind him to see Frank attempting to hide behind him, face red.

“Ah, this must be Frank,” Mikey says, completely unfazed at the knowledge of what his older brother was doing just mere minutes ago.

“How do you know my name?” Frank asks, his ever-present confidence finally returning to him. Gerard widens his eyes in a panicked glance at his brother, a universal fuck-don’t-tell-him. Mikey shrugs and grins easily.

“Lucky guess. Gerard, get over yourself and come give your only brother that you haven’t seen in months a hug.”

They had always been close, closer than most siblings, so the request has no level of oddity. Gerard is a bit afraid of looking like an idiot in front of Frank, but he swallows that fear and rushes to his brother. He ends up on Mikey’s lap, embracing him with his head nuzzling into the younger boy’s neck.

“I missed you.” He whispers.

“I missed you too, Gee. I always do, you know that. Now hows about you introduce me to your friend here, seeing as it’s hardly two in the morning and I’m beat.”

“Oh, yeah.” Gerard straightens up and points a finger to Frank, who is shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.

“That’s Frank. He’s…” Gerard trails off, not knowing if Frank wants him to disclose his career.

“I’m a ho-friend, of Gerard’s?” He words it like a question. Mikey shakes his head in amusement.

“Well, you kiddos have fun but uncle Mikey is off to bed. I assume my room is still available?”

Gerard nods rapidly. Instead of a guest room, Mikey has a room in Gerard’s house and he always will.

Gerard would never take it away or convert it into a guest room, not if his life depended on it. Gerard needs his little brother in his life, and that’s that.

“Of course Mikes.”

Mikey presses a kiss to Gerard’s cheek before ascending the stairs. Frank turns to Gerard.

“Uh, this is really awkward, but you never paid me.”

Gerard hastens to find his wallet.

“Oh! I’m sorry, here, let me get that for you.” Hands shaking slightly, he hands Frank fifty over what he owes him. When the younger man tries to protest, Gerard holds up his hand.

“Just pretend it didn’t happen, okay?”

Franks looks as though he might protest, but settles for a nod.

“Uh, I should probably go. Bye, Gerard.” Just like that, he is gone and Gerard is left staring at an empty room. He spins around when he hears a chuckle from behind him.

“Go after him, I know you want to.”

Go after him? But what if he hates Gerard for good? What if-

“Gee, I can hear the gears turning in your incredibly socially awkward brain. I’ll come with you, but you so owe me.”

He can handle this. Gerard nods to Mikey.

“Alright. But it’s your fault if he hates me.”

Mikey snorts, now pulling him out of the door. “He won’t hate you. Now c’mon.”

As it turns out, the brothers don’t have to search for long. Frank is standing at the dingy abandoned shed about a block away from where Gerard lives.

“Uh, Frank?” Gerard calls. Franks turns around. He looks surprised, but not angry or shocked. Gerard thanks all the Gods that he knows of for that.

“Gee? What are you doing here?”

When it becomes obvious that Gerard has absolutely no idea how to respond, Mikey steps in. “He obviously likes you so I kicked him in the ass and made him come out here to talk to you.”

Frank raises his eyebrows at this statement.

“Mikey, I hate to break it to you but I fuck people for money. Not exactly the ideal boyfriend.”

Mikey rolls his eyes. “Yeah, like Gerard cares. Look, it’s almost three and I doubt you’ll get anymore, uh, business tonight. How about we go to a bar and have some drinks so Gerard can work out his teenage-esque hormones so I can sleep at some point in the next week.”

Gerard, who has been spectacularly silent throughout the whole exchange perks up. “Yeah, a bar is good. Does a bar sound good?” He can practically feel Mikey’s eye roll from behind him. Frank considers it, before apparently deciding that he has nothing better to do.

“Sure. A bar is good. I know a place.”

The trio begins the walk to Pope’s Tears, Mikey shoving Gerard up to walk beside Frank approximately every three minutes. Either Frank doesn’t notice or he pretends not to, his hands firmly planted in his jean pockets. Gerard sees him shiver as a response to the biting cold.

“Do you have a coat?” He inquires of the young man. Frank shakes his head.

“You don’t? Fuck, Frank, you look so cold. Here, take mine.” Gerard is desperate, he holds out his jacket for Frank to take. He shakes his head.

“It’s alright, I don’t need it. I’ll be fine.”

Gerard can’t stand the thought of how cold Frank must be all the time, without a coat or long sleeves or something.

“No, take it, please. Frank you’re shaking. Please?”

Grudgingly, Frank accepts the coat. Gerard smiles in silent victory.

When they reach the bar the first thing that Gerard notices is that it’s mostly empty. A man with a crazy afro stands behind the bar, and a shorter, older man sits in the corner playing with a bright red lighter. Other than that, it is deserted, something uncommon of most bars that Gerard knows of.

“Frank! Where’d you pick up these fine gentlemen?” The question comes from the older man. Gerard notices that Frank’s face immediately lights up when he sees him, and that alone starts a coil of jealousy deep in the pit of his stomach.

“Just off the streets,” Frank jokes, leading them to the bar. He looks at home here, Gerard notes, like he practically lives here.

“Must have been a pretty fine street,” Ray says, eyeing Mikey. Gerard’s younger brother bats his eyelashes in jest, evoking a laugh from Ray.

“Mikey!” Gerard slugs in in the arm. “We’ve talked about this.”

“Maybe I wasn’t listening when we were talking about it, brother dear.”

They take their seats, and before long a drink is placed in front of Mikey.

Mikey looks down at the drink, and then up at Ray. “Why the free drink?”

Ray shoots him a smug smile. “Because I want to get into your pants.” He says frankly.

“Oh.” Mikey takes a sip of the drink. “That could be arranged.”

Gerard fights the urge to roll his eyes again, but inside he knows that he is just bitter about the fact that Mikey can go anywhere and get laid in under five minutes while Gerard has to pay a fucking hooker.

A good looking one though. Mikey is right, as much as Gerard doesn’t want to admit it. He is scared of rejection from Frank, he doesn’t even know what they are. Customer and seller? Fuckbuddies? Friends? The line is grey and indistinct to Gerard, and he just wishes that he knew where he stands in Frank’s mind.

Gerard tries very hard to ignore his brother hanging off of Ray, pulling him out from behind the bar and into a room foreign to Gerard. He supposes it doesn’t matter what the room is, it’s painfully obvious what they’re about to do.

Meanwhile, Frank is having an animated chat with the older man. He’s leaning over the counter, and Gerard swears that he hears him call Frank “baby”.

The statement does not do much to quell his growing jealously, and he glares at Frank’s back.

The older man-Bert, Frank called him, winks.

 


	5. Frank-Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I still hate formatting text and Frank can finally stop pining over Gerard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey it's me again.  
> Warnings: gay, non-con, sexual situations (kind of a given)  
> Disclaimer: Don't own people in this story, didn't happen. Real talk tho: has anyone gotten sued over fanfic before? Just curious, please don't sue me. I have $2

Frank stares curiously at Gerard out of the corner of his eye. He doesn’t really know what to think, he didn’t even know what to say when Mikey had informed him that Gerard likes him. _Gerard likes him._

It isn’t like Frank to develop attractions so quickly, but for some reason Gerard is…for lack of a better word, different. He is a stark opposite to Frank’s last relationship, which failed miserably if he does say so himself. Him and Jon were never really “in love”, and Frank was aware of that their entire relationship. Frank was Jon’s rebound fuck and Jon could give a shit about Frank’s occupation. That’s why their relationship worked, if it could even be called a relationship. After a while, Jon simply became another John, just one that didn’t pay.

Frank hasn’t dated, hasn’t even tried to, for over six months. His addiction is fulfilled nightly and Bert and Bob make up the platonic part of a relationship. And hell, if one-night Frank needs _more_ , Bert would be happy to give it to him.

For some reason, Frank finds himself wanting Gerard. Whether it is the fact that Gerard wants him, or the fact that Frank has found the other man attractive since they met, Frank is drawn to Gerard’s complexities, and, more than anything, his body.

Frank chuckles inwardly at the short glances that Gerard is sending his way, more than likely thinking that he is being discreet. He finds himself wishing that he could slide over to where Gerard is sitting, fidgeting and playing with his fingers, and touch him. Frank allows himself to indulge in a brief fantasy of himself rubbing Gerard through his jeans, but he quickly presses that thought to the back of his mind the moment that he feels his dick twitch in interest.

Frank takes a page out of Gerard’s handbook and sneaks a quick glance at the other man. He is staring at his drink, seemingly daring himself to drink the liquid. Mikey is not yet back, and judging from a crash in the room that he and Ray disappeared in, he won’t be for a while.

Hesitantly, Frank moves closer to Gerard. The man flushes a deep red, and looks at Frank.

“So,” Frank says quietly, not really knowing how to begin the conversation. Hell, he hardly knows what is going on.

“Uh, ignore Mikey.” Gerard blurts out. Frank cocks his head in confusion.

“Ignore Mikey?” Frank questions, almost hoping that Gerard doesn’t mean what he thinks that he means. Gerard looks down into his lap.

“I, uh, what Mikey said. Earlier. About me liking you?”

Frank’s heart seizes. An unspoken question. _Do you not like me?_

“Gerard-”

“No, wait, listen. Maybe I do like you, say I do. How ridiculous does it sound? A john has a fucking crush on a _fucking streetwalker_ and then expects him to like them back.”

Frank shrugs. “Yeah, it sounds pretty crazy. But I have a crazier one. Say a streetwalker meets a john who stands out. Who is the best mixture of sexy and awkward, and who decides that the streetwalker needs to get off too. And what if this streetwalker sees this john again, and then the john’s brother gives the streetwalker hope that maybe, maybe someone could like him. And then they fuck in the streetwalker’s friend’s bar, and then said friend is pissed at the streetwalker for approximately five minutes because he knows he would be nothing without him.” At this last sentence, Frank turns to Bert, who is sitting in the corner downing a shot glass and smirking.

Gerard stares at him, with what looks suspiciously like tears forming in his eyes. “I think I like your story better. I…wait, the thing you remember most about me is that I got you off?” A chuckle erupts from Gerard’s throat. Frank smiles. “It was just unusual. Most, uh, customers of mine just want me to, uh, service them.”

Gerard leans closer to him. “And how could anyone not like you?” By this point, he is almost touching Frank. Frank feels his skin tingle, an odd and unfamiliar sensation. He is so used to pleasure and sex being separated that the butterflies in his stomach are confusing him.

Frank shoots him a tentative smile. “Ignore that part. Uh, but really, do you like me? Because I think I would like that.”

Gerard flushes. “Yeah. Uh, we sound like middle school girls, just so you know.”

“Shit, yeah.” Frank shrugs and plasters a messy kiss on Gerard’s cheek. “Oh well. Fuck it.”

Bert raises his voice. “You two are not fucking in my bar. Get a room.”

Frank raises his eyebrow. “If I am correct, Mikey is currently destroying Ray’s innocence in that room right behind you.”

Bert shrugs. “Ray doesn’t have much innocence to destroy. But point taken, Frankie.”

Bert drops a kiss on Frank’s forehead, Frank leaning into his touch. Gerard opens his mouth to ask. Both Bert and Frank glare at him.

“No,” they answer simultaneously.

\-----

The man glares down at Frank’s prone position on the bed.

“Scene starts now,” he states in a menacing growl.

Normally, Frank restricts real sceneing to people that he has given prior explicit permission or to his current significant other. However, he is too tired to care and if the man wants to be under the illusion that they are doing a scene, Frank will be the last one to tell him no. Now, Frank can drift into subspace pretty impressively. Although he will never admit it, sometimes he has Bert dom him to calm him down. It’s not always sexual, usually just commands or a tight strip of leather pressed against his throat. Once in a blue moon, Bert will bend Frank over his knee until his ass sparks an angry red. Not to say he is a submissive, only sometimes, when he needs to, in Bert’s words, “chill his man tits.”

It’s complicated. Sometimes Frank himself doesn’t understand it. Drifting into subspace calms him, especially when he is worked up over nothing.

He feels a hot breath tickling his ear. “You’re my whore, got it? You take orders from me, do whatever I ask of you.”

Frank takes a breath. He knows the appropriate response, has spent enough time in the industry to know.

“Yes master,” he replies, making his voice weak and lost. The man smiles, obviously satisfied.

“On your knees, pet.” ‘Pet’ is said with such heavy disdain that Frank thinks that the man should have just gone with ‘slave’. Most would have, however Frank gets the feeling that this man wants the semblance of having a real dom-sub relationship.

Frank drops obediently to his knees. He clasps his hands behind his back, the semblance of wearing handcuffs.

“On the floor,” the man clarifies impatiently, already shirtless. Frank hurries to kneel on the floor, the rough carpet digging into his knees. The man unzips his zipper and commands Frank to suck.

The teeth of the man’s zipper dig into Frank’s lips every time he hits the metal, a hand clasped firmly in his hair, forcing him foreword in a rushed, unnatural rhythm. Blood trickles from a cut produced by the zipper, and Frank is reminded of Gerard.

 _Gerard._ Frank has done such a good job of pressing the older man from his mind while he is working, trying not to let his relationship interfere with any of his actions. He tries not to think of how Gerard’s hands feel pressed against his skin, how his mouth feels when he crawls up and kisses Frank, come still dripping from his swollen lips.

Frank’s head is roughly yanked away from the man, and me falls backward, barely able to catch himself with his heels. His hands fly out to catch himself.

The man glares.

“Since you can’t seem to keep your hands behind your back like a good /pet/, it looks like we’ll have to use other measures.”

The man produces a shiny pair of handcuffs from the bag that he had carried with him. Frank opens his mouth to protest, he does not do handcuffs due to the possibility that the man could do anything to him and Frank wouldn’t be able to break free.

A rough hand shoves a gag into Frank’s mouth, and, at his indignant squeak, tightens it around his head. It tastes like old plastic, and Frank is fairly certain that small pieces of the red ball are breaking off into his mouth. His hands are roughly yanked behind his back and secured in place with the biting handcuffs. He is certain that they are going to leave visible rings around his wrists.

That is, if he ever leaves this motel.

The man pets his hair, and Frank has a sudden urge to bite him. If he wasn’t gagged, that is.

 _Fuck_ , Frank thinks, suddenly certain that this guy is going to make him refer to him as daddy. Frank fucking hates doing that.

\-----

Everything hurts. His mouth feels unnaturally stretched around the plastic ball, his jaw locked from being in that position for hours. His arms are still twisted behind his back, circulation far gone in his arms and wrists. The metal bites into his skin, and his bare skin shivers in the cold. He is fairly certain that the man drugged him, because although he could get up and walk out of the motel, his limbs feel like jelly and every time he moves, he seems to acquire another bruise.

His phone.

Painstakingly, Frank crawls to his discarded jeans, summoning enough energy to fish through the pocket and pull out the device. He has to search with his back to the pants, searching for the phone only by feel.

He calls Bert, since he has him on speed dial. He doesn’t answer.

Frank growls in muted frustration. Bert always answers. He can’t call Bob. Frank scrolls through his contacts, until he reaches a newly added name.

Gerard.

It’s not a hard decision. Either he calls Gerard or he lays on the filthy floor and waits until a staff member comes and finds him.

“Hello?” Gerard’s voice is sleepy, and Frank realizes that it’s probably the middle of the night, when normal people with real jobs sleep.

“Gee?” Frank croaks, his throat raw and voice cracked. The gag all but obscures his voice, making words difficult. He hears a gasp over the phone.

“Frank? You sound awful! What happ-where are you?” He stumbles over his questions, sounding considerably more awake.

Frank grunts, attempting to form words that are stolen by the gag. An idea strikes him. He hangs up the phone quickly, and feels around the edge of his phone until he finds the camera.

He manipulates his position until his back is facing the window and he snaps a picture. Since he opened Gerard’s contact most recently, he is able to send the picture without much trouble. His phone rings. Franks fingers scramble to answer it, but he accidentally declines as he can’t see the screen. It rings again, and this time he successfully answers it.

“Frank. I know where you are. Uh, I’ll get your room number from the desk, say I’m your brother or something. I’m coming, alright? I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Frank hopes that he can get there faster.

\-----

The opening of the room door startles Frank out of his semi-conscious daze. He looks up to see Gerard standing in the doorway, horrified.

“Frankie…” he all but runs to Frank and drops to his knees. “Did someone leave you like this? How-how dare they?” Frank hears a thick tone in the base of Gerard’s throat and appreciates his sentiments, but hopes that he’ll hurry up and take the gag out of his mouth.

Thankfully, he seems to get the hint.

Frank feels Gerard gently unbuckle the clasp on the back of his head, and slowly extract the gag from Frank’s aching mouth.

“Thank you,” Frank croaks, once is mouth is once again empty of plastic. Gerard looks at him, concern lining his eyes.

“Does shit like this happen a lot?”

Frank shrugs. Somehow, this was more humiliating than being thrown into a dumpster, more humiliating than being forced to comply with a man’s wishes and then tossed aside in an alley. It is humiliating because he was left tied up, naked, defenseless, for anyone to find. For Gerard to find his _boyfriend_ tied up and on the verge of tears because some asshole decided that Frank deserved it.

Gerard hesitates. Tentatively, he asks, “Can I kiss you?”

Frank wants to say yes. He wants to, but he knows that he can’t.

“I can’t. After I take a shower, wash off the dirty feeling, and get out of the headspace of my job…then you are more than welcome to kiss me.”

Somehow, it feels like if he so mc as touches Gerard’s bare skin he would somehow infect him with the filth of the other man.

Gerard completely respects Frank’s wishes. “Of course. I’m just going to call Mikey, see if he has a bolt cutter or anything like that.”

He watches Gerard dial a number, and then hold the out tin front of him, on speaker. It rings three times before Mikey picks up.

“Gee? Fuck, it’s early. What do you want?”

Frank winces at the realization that he has now woken two people up at an ungodly hour.

“Uh, I’m with Frank and…uh, do you happen to own bolt cutters?”

There is a silence, than a small chuckle. “What, did you guy’s kinky shit go wrong?”

It’s Gerard’s turn to wince, presumably at the joking light that Mikey is throwing over the situation.

“Uh, no. He got into a little bit of trouble with a john and…do you have any or not?”

There is a rustling on the other end of the line. Mikey coughs, then there is a clanking of metal.

“I have cutters that are supposed to “repurpose welded steel”. Do you think those would work?”

Why Mikey has these Frank doesn’t think he wants to know. Gerard is nodding, his relief evident.

“Yeah, thank you Mikey. Can you meet us at my house?”

“Gerard, you need to calm down. You want know how I know that you are freaking the fuck out?”

Gerard draws a long, shuddering breath. “How?”

Mikey chuckles. “I’m at your house, remember? And these are yours they were in your closet for whatever reason.”

Frank painfully pulls himself to his feet, his arms cramped and aching from being forced into an unnatural position for hours. Gerard's Worry Face is back, his upper lip scrunched and eyebrows drawn in concern. Frank hopes he stops it soon, hell Gerard is beginning to make _Frank_ feel guilty for being in this position in the first place.

Gerard hangs up with Mikey, before turning to look at Frank ruefully.

"The good news is it's late so there probably won't be many people to see you like...this."

Frank shrugs. "Let em stare. Not like I haven't looked worse."

Gerard blanches, but thankfully this time does not comment. Frank nods toward the door, he is ready to be absolutely anywhere but here.

Gerard ushers him through the door and to the elevator. Once they are safely on the first floor, and Gerard is pointedly ignoring the look from the receptionist, the two men make their way to Gerard's car. Sitting is painful, Frank's bound hands press into the taut leather of Gerard's front seat. Gerard starts his car, the engine roaring to life in a matter of seconds.

"Thank you," Frank says quietly, leaning forward a bit to spare his wrists. Gerard looks over to him.

"I am your boyfriend, it's kind of my job. I'm glad that you're okay."

Frank spends the entire drive reaffirming in his head that he is someone's _boyfriend._

That night, Frank steps into the shower to finally cleanse himself of the day. Gerard joins him, but is respectful, he doesn’t even undress before stepping under the pelting water. Frank stands in front of Gerard, allows him to soap his hair thoroughly before rinsing it out.

They crawl into bed, Frank finding himself drifting closer to Gerard. Frank smiles, and Gerard finally gets his kiss.

“Frank?” Gerard asks, his voice heavy in anticipation of sleep. Frank mumbles an answer, too distorted by the pillows to be audible. Gerard continues, “so you know the, uh, stuff, with uh, gags and stuff? Handcuffs? BDSM, I guess. Are you into that, or was that just something you were doing for the money?”

Frank groans at the interruption to his sleep and rolls over to face Gerard. He opens his eyes, heavy lidded but focused on the other man.

“I guess I like it, sort of. Sometimes, submitting calms me down, even if it’s not sexual, but, uh, it can be. Sexual, I mean.” He takes a breath, burrowing into Gerard’s chest. “I like pain, too. Not all of the time, but it’s definitely a thing. I’m confusing, I’m sorry.”

Gerard’s expression quickly shifts from bemused to apologetic. “No! I was just listening. I mean, giving pain might be a tiny kink of mine too. Go to sleep, we can talk later.”

Frank nods happily and allows himself to slip from consciousness, his last coherent thought detailing how exactly he would love to have Gerard fuck him into the bed.

\-----

He’s wearing a corset tonight, and lacy pink panties. He does this sometimes, not because he likes it but because it certainly encourages johns who want to pretend that they are fucking a girl. The strings binding across his back are tight, digging painfully into his already tender skin.

The underwear is not as foreign as it once was, not he barely notices the differences. Except for the odd chill that he gets sometimes, that is.

One day, he envisions that he will be able to quit his night job, have enough money to have a house, maybe a dog. He doesn’t know whether that would be completely perfect or not, or whether he would find himself in withdrawal. He would certainly acquire less injuries, not be in constant fear for his own life, but he would miss it in some morbid, self-deprecating way.

For some reason, he finds himself thinking of Gerard.

\-----

“What? Where are you?”

Frank shivers, glancing around him. “I had to work. I’m sorry, Gee, but I need it.”

He hears a drawn out breath over the phone. “What? You need the money? Or is it the sex? Because I can give you sex, just, please Frank, come back to me.”

“Gee, I appreciate the offer but I need the money. I’ll be at your house in the morning, just go to sleep.”

 _And you can’t understand the difference between sex and this_ , he thinks, but does not vocalize. He’s upset Gerard enough already by simply leaving the house.

“Frank-fuck, fine, go be a fucking whore. I hope that you can manage not to get left tied up in a motel room again.” With that, Gerard hangs up and Frank is left feeling more alone than he ever has.

His phone chimes with what he assumes is a text, but Frank ignores it. He needs something to make him forget, and seeing as it’s a slow night, Frank makes the executive decision of dragging himself to Pope’s tears.

Unsurprisingly, Bert is sitting in his newfound “supervisor” position, smirking at something that Ray said and playing with a dishrag. When he sees Frank tiredly slump down onto a barstool, he jumps up.

“Frankie!”

“Where were you yesterday? I called and you didn’t answer.” Frank’s tone isn’t accusing, just questioning. He raises his eyes to meet Bert’s.

“I lost my phone a few days ago. I think it’s in my couch somewhere. Baby, what happened?”

Bert slides onto the bar stool beside Frank. The younger boy sighs and rests his head on Bert’s chest.

“Some asshole left me cuffed and gaged in some shitty motel, and I had to get Gerard to come get me. He’s angry at me for working tonight, but I don’t know what to do. I need it, Bert.”

Bert rubs his hand in circles on Frank’s back. He peppers kisses in the top of the younger man’s hair.

“Frank, you’re so young to go through all this. You’re still a kid, practically. How old is he? Twenty five?”

Frank sniffles. “Twenty four. It-it’s not that much of a difference. I’ll never be a kid again, I’ve seen too much, done too much for that. Fuck, Bert, I’m wearing a fucking corset right now so strangers will want to fuck me.”

Suddenly, Frank feels extremely young and venerable. He feels Bert wince.

“You’re wearing your girl-whore getup? You know how I feel about that…” Bert lowers his voice, kissing Frank’s forehead. Frank leans farther into him.

“Yeah, I know. I wish I didn’t have to wear it either, but the truth is, it sells. I really should go, it’s almost midnight.”

Fuck Frank wants to feel the rough impact of a hands running along his skin, using him, leaving bruises if Frank is lucky. He needs to go find a john, he doesn’t even care at this point if they want to call him “Betty” and pretend that he is a member of the more feminine gender.

Bert nods into his hair, slowly pulling away from his position pressed against Frank.

“Be safe, baby. And try to talk to Gerard okay? But if he doesn’t get it through his thick skull how great you are, then just call up uncle Bert and I’ll fuck him up.”

Frank chuckles, ducking his head.

“I’ll remember that,” he promises, slipping down from the bar stool.

“You better,” Bert calls after him, returning to his supervisor position. Frank pushes himself to walk to the street corner, in hopes that there would be work waiting for him.

That night, he incurs five scratches down his back and several well placed bruises. Frank couldn’t be happier as he drags himself back to Bob’s basement, blocking all thoughts of how he has to talk to Gerard eventually out of his mind.

When he gets to his roommate’s home and makes his way into the kitchen, Frank almost stops short when he sees Bob sitting at the kitchen table drinking a cup of coffee.

“Uh, hey.”

Bob looks up in response to Frank’s words. “Hey, Frank. Did you have a good night last night?”

Frank sits next to him, ignoring the sleep nagging at his eyelids. “Yeah, I’m sorry that I didn’t call until late.”

Bob shrugs. “Frank, I don’t pretend to know what you do at night. But please tell me it’s safe?”

Frank widens his eyes. “I-I work at the Mart, uh-”

“Frank.” Bob locks eye with the younger man. “It doesn’t take an idiot to know that you don’t work at the Mart. The tears on the back of your shirt, the scratches, you don’t get those working at a market.”

Frank sighs. He doesn’t want to explain his dirty little secrets of nighttime, so he just shrugs.

“It’s safe. I mean, I have…co-workers to make sure that I stay safe.”

Bob nods. “Great. Now, some of us have normal jobs and have to get up at the asscrack of dawn. I’m going to bed, but I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Frank nods, grateful that he dodged a bullet.

He remembers the text that he never pulled his phone out of his pocket to look at. It’s from Gerard. An apology.

_Frank, I’m sorry. Come back? We need to talk, I need to apologize. XoxoG_

Frank wants to run back to Gerard, like lust-driven teenagers do in movies as some big declaration of love. He wants to, but unlike teenagers in movies, he doesn’t have unlimited energy to just run around after an already exhausting night. His fingers type out an answer, and directly after he sends it, he shuts off his phone.

He needs a night to slip away from his problems, so he takes just that.

Across town, Gerard’s phone chimes with a new text message. Until he wakes up the next morning, only his phone and the sender himself know what it says.

_Of course G. Text me somewhere to meet tomorrow, and I’ll be there._

_\-----_

They meet at the coffee shop where Gerard works. Gerard has sent him the address that morning, explaining that he had to work anyway so it was the best option.

Frank is hesitant as he walks into the shop, taking note of the perpetual good smell of coffee that surrounds the place. His feet create gentle thudding sounds as they cross the threshold of the door, the first thing he sees being a short, dark haired man sitting on a slighter taller man’s shoulders, attempting to get a cookie out of the taller man’s hand. They are wearing aprons, so Frank ventures to assume that they work here.

He stands at the counter, smiling slightly when the shorter man tugs on the light haired man’s hair to steer him to where Frank is standing.

“Hey, I’m Patrick. How can I help you?”

The light haired one glares up at his friend. “Pete, you realize that this is extremely unprofessional.”

The one that Frank assumes is Patrick dumps Pete onto the ground.

“Now,” he says, turning to Frank, “how can I help you?”

“Uh, is Gerard here?” Frank is oddly intimidated by the air of casualty that surrounds Gerard’s workplace. It’s almost frightening how easily they all seem to get along.

“Gerard!” What can only be described as a shriek comes out of Pete’s mouth, and Frank finds himself grateful for Gerard’s sake that there are only one or two customers currently in the building.

Looking frazzled, Gerard bursts through the kitchen door.

“What? Pete, what’s wro-” he breaks off when his eyes land on Frank.

“…oh. Frank, hi.”

Frank shifts uncomfortably. “Hey. Look, I’m sorry I worked last night. It was insensitive of me not to tell you first.”

Gerard shakes his head adamantly.

“No, I’m sorry. I was a complete dick. Of course you have to work, it’s your job. I can’t expect you to quit your job for me. I mean, I don’t want you to.”

Frank scuffs his feet. “We were both at fault.”

Pete has been looking back and forth between the two of them.

“We’ll be going,” he informs them, dragging Patrick with him as he leaves. Gerard stares after them in amusement.

“Idiots.” He informs the air in their wake. Frank raises his eyebrows, but refrains from commenting.

“Anyway,” Gerard says, drawing himself back to the present. “Can we just both be sorry and then forget about it? I feel awful about what I said, I was just worried when I saw that you were gone.”

 _Understandable._ Honestly, Frank would be worried too if he was in the situation that Gerard had been in. Hell, he probably would have yelled at himself too.

Frank nods. “Yeah. I like that Idea.”

He really can’t stand to be angry at Gerard, at it isn’t like he did anything too incredibly awful.

Gerard sighs in obvious relief. “Awesome. I was stressing over this all night, fuck, I’ve already had five cups of coffee today just thinking about it.”

Frank notices that Gerard begins to jig his leg just thinking about the substance.

Frank wiggles his eyebrows. “So I take it Mikey and Ray got along well?”

Gerard laughs, a genuine sound of amusement. “Yeah. I practically had to pry him off of Ray when we had to leave Pope’s Tears. I think I saw him climbing out of the guest window this morning? I couldn’t tell, with all of his hair it could have been a sheep.”

Frank makes a face. “For your brother’s sake, I sincerely hope that it was Ray.”

Frank watches the implications of his statement dawn on Gerard.

“Ew, no, it was Ray. It was Ray. Oh my God, I didn’t know anything could be more disgusting than hearing about my brother’s sex life, but you managed it.”

Frank attempts an ill-fated hair flip.

“I try. Hey, want to find your brother and go somewhere?”

Gerard smiles. “That sounds good.”

Frank lets his relief wash over him. Things are okay, more than okay.

He hopes that he can keep it like this.

 


	6. Gerard- Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heyy well that took ten years but I'm back with another chapter. Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: drinking and i think that that's it.
> 
> Disclaimer: Not real, don't own any band in this story. Or any band members at all. Shit, I can't even afford merch

Gerard is on cloud nine. He has his boyfriend back, he has successfully repressed any thoughts of his brother’s sex life to the back of his mind, and said boyfriend is currently pressed up against him, hand clutching his as the blonde bimbo is devoured on screen.

Gerard had protested how utterly teenager-esque going to a movie for their first real date was, but Mikey had pointed out that Frank is still a teenager and Mikey himself is not that far off of Frank. Ray hadn’t contributed input, as he was far too engrossed in staring at Mikey’s ass. Gerard has sort of assumed that they are a thing.

_Maybe having sex on the first date runs in the family._

Not to mention, Gerard had told Mikey that he wouldn’t like the movie (his brother has a strange aversion to blood) but no, no one listens to Gerard. So here they are, Mikey’s face pale and sweaty and Frank’s hand letting go of his in favor of drifting closer to Gerard’s thigh.

“ _Frank_ ,” Gerard hisses, not in favor of public indecency, which is what is about to happen if Frank doesn’t quit. A mischievous grin spreads across Frank’s face, and he lets his hand fall to rest on Gerard’s dick through his jeans.

Gerard sucks in a breath, frantically batting at Frank’s hand in an attempt to prevent causing a scene. He feels a hot breath against his earlobe, then the sharp bite of dull teeth into the tender flesh. Gerard looks over to Mikey and Ray, hoping that they were watching the movie so he could make a case to Frank that not _everyone_ has to constantly touch their boyfriend. It’s harassment, really.

Unfortunately, he turns to see Mikey with his tongue shoved down Ray’s throat. Gerard takes a moment to marvel over how much control his little brother seems to have over a man five years older than him.

Gerard is forcibly reminded of his own situation when Frank slides over to sit on him, grinding down onto his lap.

“No,” Gerard sputters, pushing desperately at his over-eager boyfriend. “I love you Frank, but public displays of affection are not…something I’m okay with.”

Frank easily sides back into his own seat.

“Understandable,” he whispers, causing Gerard to remember that they are in a _fucking movie theater._ Where people are quiet.

He hears Franks quiet chuckle as his face flames red at the thought.

\-------

Gerard wishes that Frank didn’t have to work. At first, he thinks that it might be jealousy causing him to resent Frank’s line of business, but quickly he realizes that it is worry.

Worry that something else might happen to Frank, something like the handcuff incident.

Frank hurried to assure him that he is fine, he has people to watch out for him, and he can take care of himself. Gerard privately thinks that those people did an awful job because Gerard found Frank tied up and gagged in a seedy motel room, for anyone to find. If he ever finds the fucker that did it, they’ll be sorry.

“I’ll be home by the time you leave for work. I’ll call you. If you want, I can come over to yours after you get home from work.” Frank promises, letting a kiss linger on Gerard’s lips. Gerard doesn’t want to let him go, and he does so reluctantly. Although he’ll never admit it, he stands in the doorway for far too long after Frank is out of sight.

Even though Frank has only stayed over at Gerard’s once, it already feels strange not to have the younger boys body pressed against his while they sleep. His bed seems cold, empty.

Gerard is about to let himself slip into sleep when a loud crash sounds from the kitchen. He jumps to his feet, ready to defend his home, his family…or really just him and his imaginary pet cat, but whatever.

Turns out, no defending is necessary and his imaginary cat is safe because the sound is only Mikey.

“Hey Mikes,” Gerard greets his younger brother, who looks like he may have had a bit too much fun with Ray. His hair sticks up in odd directions, and there is still a telltale flush across his normally pale cheeks.

“Gee,” Mikey responds in a conversational tone, reaching up into a cabinet to grab the salt shaker.

“Did you and Ray…have fun?” Gerard forces himself to ask without gagging at the thought. Mikey nods with a grin.

“Yeah. I’m going to bring him to the coffee shop tomorrow, I promised him I would actually.”

Gerard nods, becoming distracted. He turns on the resident coffee maker, the kitchen appliance that probably gets the most use in Gerard’s kitchen.

"It'll be weird to have him there. Like, a crossing of Frank and I's worlds or something."

"You're such a dork," Mikey shakes his head, preparing to put his food in the microwave. Gerard laughs and ruffles his brother's hair.

"You and Ray, you guys are careful right?"

Mikey scrunches up his nose in disgust, deftly ducking out of Gerard's grasp to tend to the chiming microwave.

"Yes Gee, neither one of us will be getting pregnant."

"It's mandatory brotherly concern," Gerard sputters, the mental image of Mikey having a child burning his brain. Luckily for his sanity, there is no way in fuck that that could happen. He hopes, because he is sure that he really _really_ could not deal with that.

"Of course, brother dear. You know, if pointers are what you're looking for-"

"No," Gerard cuts him off adamantly, "I'm not having this conversation with you. Not now, not ever."

Mikey shrugs and pulls the plate of what looks suspiciously like day old pizza out of the microwave.

"Whatever you say. Now get some sleep, because unlike your star crossed lover, you have work in the morning."

"We are not star-crossed," Gerard snorts, but nonetheless makes his way back to the staircase.

"Whatever you say," Mikey calls after him, and Gerard shakes his head. Him and Frank are not _star-crossed._

Probably.

\-----

"And what can I get for you?" Gerard asks pleasantly, fighting down his urge to strangle the man in front of him. This man has been standing in front of the counter for seventeen minutes, Gerard counted, and is still humming as he tries to decide what to order.

Gerard finds himself hoping that one of the bricks making up the ancient ceiling will fall directly onto the man's head. His fingers drum on the counter, still wet from when Patrick cleaned it before flipping the sign from "Closed" to "Open".

He vaguely entertains the idea of calling Patrick up to the counter to deal with this man, Gerard swears that he has infinite patience, fuck he deals with Pete and likes it. However, the man finally opens his mouth to order.

Precisely at the same moment that Ryan and Brendon decided to scream at one another.

"I'm sick of you always making me clean the fucking dishes!"

"Baby," Brendon pleads, following Ryan through the door of the kitchen. "You know I hate-fine, fine, I'll wash them."

Ryan turns. "You owe me a blowjob," he says under his breath, and turns to walk back into the kitchen.

"Anything," Brendon promises, following him.

When Gerard turns back to the man, he is gone. He should have known, really, Brendon always wins the weeks total of how many customers each employee scares away. Gerard signs and puts a check next to Brendon's name on their tally sheet. If Jamia knew about it she would kill them, but Pete told her some bullshit about it ranking good behavior and she believed it.

Pete appears to Gerard's right, whispering something to Patrick. Gerard narrows his eyes.

"Pete," he says, keeping his voice light. "What's going on? I didn't even know that you were capable of whispering."

Pete looks over to him, his cheeks flushing red. Suddenly, Gerard had an idea of the topic of the conversation.

"For the last time," Gerard grits out through his teeth, "I am not a virgin and he may as well give Patrick the forty bucks that you owe him now."

"He's not," a voice says from behind him. "A virgin, I mean."

Gerard wants to sink into the floor and never, ever surface.

"Frank," he chokes out.

Frank laughs and slings his arm around Gerard's shoulders, leaning in to kiss his cheek.

"He wouldn't let us leave unless we brought him," Mikey says, having appeared sometime during the moments that Gerard was sure he was going to die of mortification.

"It's true," Ray chimes in, his hand tightly intertwined with Mikey's. Mikey grins and presses his lips to his...boyfriend's? Gerard doesn't even know.

"Mikey!" Pete barrels past Gerard to jump into Mikey's arms. Mikey grins and embraces him.

"Fuck, I've missed you sweet little dude." Mikey's voice is low, happy Gerard would say. Pete always was one of the only people that could draw real emotions out of Mikey.

Pete grins and waves Gerard away from the register.

"Go introduce Frank here to everyone, I'll cover this. Actually, I'll get Patrick to. And Mikey," Pete grins at him from his position pressed against the younger boy's chest. Ray looks perplexed, but also like Mikey already explained the MikeyandPete situation. "We need to catch up. Like, now."

"Agreed." Mikey turns to Ray. "Uh, if you just hang out for a few minutes, the store closes in ten and then we can all hang out."

"Cool," Ray agrees. "I'll just follow Frank around, him being the only person here I actually know besides you and all."

"Great." Mikey grins, turning to Pete. "Let's go."

Gerard shakes his head in amusement and drags Frank after him to get Patrick and introduce him to Brendon and Ryan.

\-----------

As it turns out, Frank and Brendon are practically the same person. They are both more than a little hyperactive, and chat animatedly about some obscure local Jersey band that they both like. Which means that Gerard is more than a little distraught when Brendon announces that him and Ryan have some dinner thing that they are attending, but they'll be sure to hang out another day. Frank assures him that it's fine, so Gerard doesn't feel quite as bad.

Frank's phone rings, and he hastens to answer. When he hangs up, he looks at Gerard apologetically.

"I'm sorry, Bert's having a crisis. I'm come back as soon as I can, okay?"

"You don't have to," Gerard tells him, but Frank is out of the door by the time he closes his mouth.

"Feisty, that one," Patrick comments, passing by Gerard to sit down next to Ray. They've all gathered in a circle of chairs in the middle of the empty seating area, according to Pete the only perk of working in a coffee shop. Mikey and Pete have been there longer than the rest of them, talking and laughing as if they still talk every day.

Besides, okay, so Pete and Mikey used to fuck. Gerard knows that. Gerard also knows that Ray knows that.

Patrick does not know that. So Gerard is not entirely surprised when Patrick shoots the two uncomfortable looks masking thinly veiled jealously. Ray, on the other hand, seems perfectly content with the way his kinda-not-really boyfriend is laying in Pete’s lap, reminiscing on a few summers ago. Gerard definitely remembers that summer, the summer where he kept his music nice and loud so he couldn’t hear his own brother moaning Pete’s name, and vica versa. They were very much friends with benefits, and although for the love of everything holy Gerard can’t figure out how exactly they managed it, no one fell in love and no messy relationship drama formed.

Fuck, Mikey was still a junior in high school. Pete had to have been a sophomore, Gerard decides, or a freshman. It’s not his fault that the kid dropped out at seventeen, therefore making the situation confusing.

“Remember when I coated our wall in Jell-O and your mom thought that it was blood?” Pete asks, a giggle rising out of his throat at the thought. Mikey’s face lights up in recognition.

“Yeah! Dude, she almost murdered me.” Mikey explodes into a fit of giggles at the memory, almost falling off of Pete’s lap but instead rolling into his chest. Patrick practically bristled.

“I mean, it least then it would have been real blood,” Gerard suggests, vaguely wondering if the walls are about to be covered in Mikey’s blood by Patrick’s hand.

“I would have paid good money to watch Pete throw a fit when you guy had to clean it up,” Ray says, obviously unbothered by the way that Pete is running his fingers lightly through Mikey’s short hair.

“Don’t remind me,” Mikey groans, obviously recalling the obviously traumatic experience. Gerard chuckled. Their mother had been pissed, but she had exacted her revenge slowly and painfully. Gerard still remembers how he didn’t have to do any chores for a month because she had forced Mikey to take over all of them.

“Why did you coat the wall in Jell-O?” Patrick asked, his voice at a bit higher of a pitch than normal but otherwise well controlled.

“Well, see he had the bright idea-” Mikey begins, and is quickly cut off by Pete. “-to replace whipped cream with Jell-O, right? Because Mikey was being a little bitch-”

“I was not!” Mikey protests, laughing as Pete ruffles his hair. “Okay, maybe I was. But it didn’t warrant Jell-O in my-”  
“Anyway,” Pete continues, “Mikey was being a little bitch so I made really thin Jell-O and replaced the whipped cream, so that when he went to spray it-”

“Excuse me, you sprayed it,” Mikey interjects, getting into the story now.

“Okay, maybe, when I went to spray it and he got Jell-O instead of whipped cream Jell-O got all over his chest, so he tried to grab the container and fucking sprayed it all over the wall.”

“On accident,” Mikey defends. “And my stomach is not the only place that that awful liquid went.”

Patrick has looked entirely confused throughout the whole jumbled story, so he takes the opportunity to speak up.

“Uh, Pete? Why was there Jell-O on Mikey’s chest? Like, I thought Jell-O was for…eating?”

Pete shrugs, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “I mean; I did eat it.” He winks at Mikey, who chuckles and blows and exaggerated kiss in his direction. Patrick tenses, but Ray just chuckles. Gerard groans, and cuffs Mikey on the side of the head.

“Mikes, as much as I love you I don’t particularly want to hear about my little brother’s sex life.”

“Oh, you heard it every night,” Mikey retorts, “I heard your radio through the wall, you know.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Gerard sees Patrick’s face pale.

“Uh, you two were…together?” He stammers, searching Pete’s face for answers. Gerard almost breaks into laughter at the look on his friend’s face.

“Nah, just fuck buddies.”

Mikey puts his hand on his heart in mock offense. “I would like to think that I was more to you than that.”

Pete shoots him a smug glance. “Why of course Mikey dear, you were just the love of my poor little fifteen-year-old life.”

Mikey flops back to lean against Pete’s shoulder and curls up in his lap. Those two just can’t keep their hands off of each other, Gerard remarks to himself. Of course, they never could, not the entire summer before Mikey dropped out and moved away with his parents, leaving Gerard to fend for himself. In fact, the entire summer Gerard was certain that they were somehow glued together, he never saw his younger brother without Pete’s hand plastered onto him somewhere.

When Gerard is certain the Patrick is definitely going to hyperventilate from jealousy, he pulls him out of the room.

“Listen, I know that you’ve worked yourself into some kind of jealous fit, but I promise you that they aren’t a thing anymore.”

“I-” Patrick swallows. “Why should I care if they are a thing or not? It doesn’t concern me.”

Gerard rolls his eyes and gives Patrick’s shoulders a small shake. “It’s painfully obvious why you would care. I’m just saying, you have nothing to worry about.”

Before Patrick can respond, Gerard returns to the seating area where the rest of his friends are still talking and joking among one another. He even sees Ray lick up the side of Mikey’s face, which is like, third base for the guy.

“Where did Patrick go?” Pete asks, removing his face from Mikey’s hair for a moment in order to speak.

“He just needed a moment,” Gerard answers, taking his seat again. “He’ll be back.”

Almost before the words leave Gerard’s mouth, a blur of black and grey streaks toward him and lands in his lap. Frank kisses the words out of his mouth, his hungry tongue exploring Gerard’s mouth with vigor.

“God, get a room,” Gerard hears, a chuckle following shortly afterward.  Reluctantly, Frank disconnects his mouth from Gerard’s and opts to sit in his lap instead.

“Where did you come from? I thought you were at Bert’s?” Gerard nuzzles Frank’s hair, fluffy and clean from what he presumes was a shower.

“Yeah,” Frank drags out the word, teasing. “But I wanted to see you.”

Gerard’s face splits into a grin. He loves this man.

"So what was Bert's damage?" Ray asks, still oddly calm about the fact that Pete is pressing kisses to the back of Mikey's neck. Frank shrugs.

"Nothing major, just complaining about how since you're here he has to actually _work _for once."__

Ray rolls his eyes. "Typical. He's really taken fondly to his supervisor position. I don't think he gets up from that chair that he has unless the bar is on fire."

Pete arches an eyebrow. "Does that happen often?"

Ray bites his lip, thinking. "More often than you'd think," he finally decides on, and Gerard makes a mental note to ask him how exactly a bar catches on fire.

Patrick walks slowly back into the room, a concentrated look gracing his features. He takes back his seat next to Ray, still not speaking.

Pete wiggles away from Mikey a bit, but not enough to make too big of a difference. Patrick seems like he has relaxed, albeit not entirely.

“Hey ‘Trick,” Pete greets, lifting his head from Mikey’s neck to speak. Gerard sees Patrick badly disguise a wince, but the man offers Pete a shaky smile.

“Hey.” Patrick seems to see it as somewhat of a restart, in a universe where he knows why exactly that Pete and Mikey are glued to one another.

“Dude,” Mikey speaks, his lips moving against Pete’s hair. “Do you remember when we got high as shit and we went to your house and everyone totally knew?”

They chatter on and reminisce for a while, until Gerard stands up. Frank is still seated on his lap, so lifting him up as Gerard stands up is a process. The shorter man grins and hops out of Gerard’s grasp.

Mikey gets up off of Pete in favor of leaning against Ray. Frank looks over at the two of them.

“Want to go to Pope’s Tears and return Ray?” Frank slides his around Gerard’s waist.

“Objection,” Mikey counters, still leaning on his boyfriend. “I want to keep him.”

Gerard really does try not to gag.

“You could come with us,” Frank offers, “but I don’t really want to see a murder, so we gotta get Ray back tonight.”

“Alright,” Mikey concedes, moaning lightly when Ray turns to suck on his neck. “As long as I can come.”

“Maybe you could get a room while you’re at it,” Gerard suggests with a laugh. Mikey sticks out his tongue at his brother, earning a well-chosen finger being held up at him.

Pope’s Tears isn’t that far away, but they take Gerard’s car. Mostly because Mikey complains about having to walk that far until Gerard gives up and volunteers his car.

Frank immediately calls shotgun, and Gerard groans, hoping that his backseat isn’t tainted for eternity.

“How come I never knew that my brother is a sex crazed maniac?” He sighs to Frank.

“Am not!” Mikey protests, at the same time that Frank shrugs.

“I’m afraid that there’s nothing that can be done for him now,” Ray says solemnly, looking at Mikey with faux-resignation. The younger of the two giggles hysterically, and Gerard wonders if perhaps someone gave him something stronger than coffee. Normally, he’s so stoic that you forget he’s in the room.

“You just know you couldn’t live without my dick,” Mikey teases, poking Ray's face until he leans in to kiss him. Gerard makes an exaggerated gagging sound until the two pull apart once more.

“Bother dear, you’ve been eye fucking Frank ever since he got here. I think I deserve a kiss from my doting boyfriend.” Mikey cocks his eyebrow at his brother, daring him to argue.

“I was not _eye fucking _Frank. And no, because you’re my little brother and you will _not _fuck in the back of any car that I am driving.”____

Thankfully for all involved, they pull up at the bar moments later. Frank grasps Gerard’s hand as soon as they exit the car, and Gerard dutifully ignores the fact that Mikey jumps into Ray’s arms and has him carry him into the building. It’s kind of cute, he admits to himself, how clingy Mikey gets when he really likes someone. He doesn’t know what he has seen in Ray, after all, he has only known the other man for a few days, but Gerard has only seen Mikey become this attached to his first boyfriend, Pete and himself. He makes a mental note to give Ray the customary threatening speech that is required of older brothers.

“Frankie! You brought Ray back.” Bert grins at Frank from over the counter, and the younger man disentangles himself from Gerard and sprints to Bert.

“Yep!” He comments happily, hugging him quickly before turning back to Gerard.

“Can we stay for a little bit?”

Gerard considers this, it’s not like he has anything better to do with his afternoon.

“Sure,” he decides. His brain is beginning to cramp horribly, the need for caffeine beginning to consume him. He looks curiously at Bert.

“Do you sell coffee here? Or anything with caffeine really?”

Bert stares at him for a moment before surveying his array of liquors. He turns back to Gerard, frowning.

“You know that’s like, highly dangerous, right?”

Gerard shrugs. “Okay. I’ll just…do you have, like, coke?”

Bert smirks. “I assume you mean the soft drink?”

Gerard nods. Frank impatiently pulls him to one of the bar stools, sitting him down and then seating himself next to his boyfriend. Ray and Mikey take seats beside Gerard, still completely wrapped up in a world that only they inhabit.

“Rum, Frankie?” Bert asks, and Frank nods.

Gerard should have really kept track of the number of shots that Frank was taking.

\---------

Gerard watches Frank’s drunken antics in amusement. The smaller man is practically falling over attempting to walk, to the point where Gerard gets up and guides him to his own bed, where Gerard carefully sets him down.

He feels Frank’s hands clutch at his shirt, and he looks down in confusion. Frank is staring up at him, eyes weepy.

“How can you stand me?” He asks, a slight slur to his usually annunciated words.

“What?” Gerard stares at him in confusion, and lets Frank curl up against his chest.

“How can you lo-hell, even like me? Fuck, I’m so dirty…so dirty…fuck.” Frank rubs his eyes, which have teared up considerably since Gerard noticed them, on the front of Gerard’s shirt. Frank’s statement tears at the older man’s heart, what opinion does Frank have of himself?

“Frank, you’re not dirty. What…I don’t understand where this is coming from.”

Frank looks up at him through tear stained eyelashes.

“I’m tainted. You don’t deserve to have someone who’s tainted like I am, who’s let strangers touch every inch of skin that should be reserved for you. Dirty. I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry Gee.”

“Babe,” Gerard leans down to kiss the top of Frank’s head. “Babe, I don’t think you’re dirty. I wouldn’t care if you were a blushing virgin, or if you’d at ten dicks in your ass at the same time. Literally, Frank, don’t think of yourself like that. You’re perfect, you hear me?”

Frank shakes his head, appearing oddly sober. “No one’s perfect, Gee. Not you, not me, not anyone. If you knew what I’ve done…you wouldn’t think that.”

Gerard pulls Frank’s face toward him, so that their eyes are locked. “Frank. Let’s remember how we met. Your job is not who you are.”

“But I need it,” Frank says softly, “It’s filthy and awful, but I need it.”

“Oh.” The word falls from Gerard’s lips quietly, seeming to flutter before landing softly on the ground. He has never thought of it like that, like Frank relies on some aspect of the career. Like an addiction.

“Oh,” he says again, pulling Frank closer.

“Are you mad?” Frank asks, sounding so innocent, like the eighteen-year-old that Gerard often forgets that he is. He pulls Frank back onto the bed together, so that he is laying with Frank facing him, but still pressed tightly to his chest.

“Of course not. I just never thought about it like that. Your job, I mean.”

“It’s awful and humiliating and I’m horrible for wanting it, needing it. Fuck, Gee, you deserve so, so much better. I’m so fucking dirty and…and _used_. How can you touch me? How can you _kiss_ me without vomiting? How…” he trails off, tears now flowing freely down his flushed cheeks, dripping from his chin to his scarred collar bone. Gerard is at a loss for words, he doesn’t know what he can do or say to make Frank snap out of this haze of self-deprecation.

Gerard trails his hand over Frank’s ebony skin, tracing images on his stomach and upper back. Frank’s eyes are shut tightly, seeming to block out Gerard, himself, and the world.

“It must be so humiliating to know what I do; how many people I’ve fucked.” Frank’s words are a soft whisper, but his earlier venom is still present in his words. Gerard wishes that he knew what to say.

“How many people you’ve fucked doesn’t define you,” Gerard ends up whispering, letting his designs drawn by nimble fingertips spawn across Frank’s shoulders, over his tattoos. He feels Frank’s muscles shake under his fingertips, taut with the tension of his entire body.

Frank curls closer into his boyfriend at Gerard’s words, the alcohol slowly sedating him. Gerard continues his sketching over Frank’s pale skin, imagining the lines that he could leave with a pen, in addition to Frank’s multitude of designs etched into his skin.

“So beautiful,” Gerard breathes.

He hears Frank’s choked sobs begin to diminish, his breathing transitioning from forced hiccups to shaky exhales. Gerard is more than a little sure that Frank is almost passed out, the alcohol forcing his breathing to slow, his eyes to slip closed and his brain to fall into sleep. Gerard continues moving his fingers over Frank’s skin until he is sure that his boyfriend is asleep. His arm is asleep, his body distorted into an uncomfortable and unnatural position, but it’s okay, because Frank is comfortable. And right now, Frank is all that matters.


	7. Frank- Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Concert. A bit of kinky shit at the end. Gabe appears briefly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back yay. Please tell me if this is okay or shit because I honestly don't know at this point.

Frank shivers, hands clutching at his exposed skin in an attempt to warm it. The Jersey air bites right through his skin, chilling his blood, or so it seems. He just left Gerard’s, his hangover still throbbing and worsening by the minute. For once, he is forcing himself to work because he really does need the money. He finds himself wishing that he is wrapped up in his warm bed, or on Gerard’s couch watching a movie or lazily making out. He’s blocking out the little of what he had said the night before, not ready to think about the whole situation.

On some level, Frank knows that Gerard would help him with finances if he asked. He’s too proud for that, though, can’t force himself to be a charity case. So here he is, cold infiltrating his body, standing at a new street corner and scanning the road for oncoming cars.

Finally, he catches sight of a small grey car, the kind only driven by soccer moms.

 _Fuck,_ he thinks, _not fucking now._

Why can’t it be a guy, he’s too fucking tired to take charge, to be gentle and compassionate. He’s too worn out to be the seductive angel that women want, the kind that can fool them into thinking that they did not just pay an exorbinate amount of money for a quick fuck from a total stranger.

The car pulls up to the curb, not ten feet away from him. He takes a deep breath, steels himself for the inevitable outcome, and advances toward the car.

The woman that the opening of the passenger door reveals is young, probably young enough that her kids are still in grade school. Her obviously bleached blonde hair swings down to her lower back, mascara smeared around her eyelids.

“You gonna get in, cutie?” She asks, obnoxiously white teeth smiling at him. He carefully maintains a smirk, sauntering up to the car. Any other guy would kill for this, she’s conventionally pretty and practically begging for him.

Sometimes, he feels like he’s broken or something for not enjoying encounters like this.

“Of course, beautiful.” He slides into the passenger seat, making sure that his smile never falters. He leans in, breathing lightly against her neck.

“Cash up front, a hundred for an hour two hundred for a night.” He doesn’t even offer the third, she isn’t the type to pay him to stay the entire night.

“Hmm, let’s see what I can get for you cutie.” She ruffles through her pristine leather wallet, and pulls out two rumpled hundred dollar bills. He pockets the money quickly, and returns his attention to the woman.

“Where to, sweetheart?” He husks, lips inches from hers.

 

As he previously guessed, she drives them to a motel. Probably because of the kids that he is positive that she has, and probably the husband that golfs ever Sunday and has a membership to two different country clubs.

Thankfully, this particular motel has been host to his illicit activities enough times that the man behind the check in desk doesn’t even spare him a second glance. He hovers close to the woman, straying small touches here and there to keep her engaged.

The bed is plush and soft, sheets neatly made and blanket tucked into the corners. He lays out his rules, making sure that she agrees before pushing her gently onto the bed.

He’s so incredibly not in the mood for this that it’s a shock. For some reason, he finds that he would much _rather_ be at Gerard’s, perhaps watching him draw a picture-perfect imitation of a vampire or some obscure ghoul that Frank had never even imagined before then.

“What do you want?” he husks in the woman’s ear, lets his hands creep up to her chest. She gasps, face already flushed and needy.

“Everything,” she says, even though her voice is breathy the words are undisputedly a command. Frank nods and begins to unbuckle her pants.

 

He leaves before the sweat coating his body has even dried into a stiff sheen. The women utters a small thank you before he firmly shuts the door behind him. It’s almost wonderfully innocent, and he finds himself chuckling as he leaves the building.

His jeans feel stuck to his right leg, and he swears when he looks down to see a wet patch of what is most likely come gluing his jeans to his knee and upper thigh. He knows it isn’t from today, which leaves the only logical conclusion that he had been wearing the same jeans for the past three days.

He grimaces at that slightly disturbing fact, and decides in that precise moment that he needs to go to Bob’s and change. The sun is just beginning to brighten the morning sky, a sign that Frank should really get some sleep.

Whatever. Sleep is for the weak.

He knows where he is, at least relative to Bob’s house, but unfortunately “Bob’s house” is over an hour’s walk away.

Bob seems less than thrilled at Frank decides to call him at 5:33 in the morning.

“Isn’t it just my favorite graveyard shift worker,” he deadpans when he picks up Frank’s call. Frank chuckles apologetically.  
“Sorry man. Look, I’m stuck out by fifth and Birch and I need a ride to your house. Care to help a poor, innocent Frank out?”

“Why are you-” Bob cuts himself off. “Never mind. I’ll come get you, but I hope you know that it’s out of the goodness of my heart.”

“Thanks Bobert.” Frank teases, earning a huff over the phone at that particular nickname but nevertheless a ride.

 

Frank always forgets to actually wash his clothes, so it takes a considerable amount of digging to find something dubiously clean but hasn’t been worn since he can remember. He frowns, and pauses to douse himself with some cologne that is probably Bob’s but at least it covers up the scent of the clothes.

Fuck he needs to sleep.

Frank climbs the stairs with a sign, with some morbid hope that Bob is in bed and not in the mood for conversation.

No such luck.

“Hey Bob,” Frank greets him, fatigue painfully evident in his voice. The older man looks up from his cellular device.

“Frank. So may I ask what exactly you were doing at five in the morning?”

He sounds like a paranoid parent, and Frank almost laughs.

“I promise that no drugs were involved. And you know that if Bert was there he would have driven me himself, so really, you don’t have to worry.”

“I still need to talk to that motherfucker about last time,” Bob mutters, but looks up at Frank once more.

“Maybe I don’t want to know. But…was it because of your job?”

Frank holds in a breath; not sure whether he should give up the information. He doesn’t want Bob to _hate him,_ or connect any dots that could lead to him discovering Frank’s current occupation.

“Yes. It-it was for my job.”

Bob purses his lips, almost sizing Frank up.

“Okay,” he finally says, his voice resigned. “Just…as always, I hope that you were safe.”

“Of course.” Frank swallows, and shoots Bob a quick smile. “Could you possibly wake me in…like an hour?”

His friend nods, glancing at his watch to confirm the time. “’Course. Get some sleep, you look like you need it.”

Frank nods, because he’s not wrong, Frank is positive that he appears to be the literal embodiment of death running on no sleep.

“Thanks,” he says softly, and turns to descend the staircase. Bob still hasn’t fixed the heater, not an obstacle for Frank’s sleep deprived brain. He lets himself sink into his mattress, and drifts into the fuzzy haze of sleep.

At least until Bob shakes him awake, muttering, “sorry, sorry, forgot to wake you. Thought you needed to sleep. Sorry.”

“Wha-?” Frank opens his eyes, wincing at the light. “What time is it?”

Bob glances at his watch. “Uh, it’s been two and a half hours since you fell asleep, sorry.”

“S’okay.” Frank assures him, beginning to sit up. “I needed the sleep.”

Bob agrees, helps to pull him up. “You look better.” He observes. “Less like death.”

“Thanks,” Frank comments dryly. “I was planning on showing up at Gee’s work today. To surprise him or whatever.”

“Aw,” Bob coos obnoxiously, “Does Frank have a date?”

“Oh fuck off,” Frank says, forcing himself out of bed. “I refuse to be embarrassed about going on a date with my _boyfriend.”_ His tone is teasing, and Bob smirks at him.

“I never thought I would see the day,” Bob wipes away a faux tear. “Little Frankie finally got a boyfriend.”

“Asshole,” Frank shoots back, rummaging on the floor beside his bed in search of his phone.

“You love me though,” his friend insists, and Frank agrees. He finds his phone and hold it up triumphantly.

“Alright, I gotta go if I want to catch him before the shop closes.”

“Do this guy like run the place?” Bob questions. “I mean, he’s _always there.”_

Frank shrugs. “Kind of. His boss is almost never there so he’s basically the boss. He likes it, the guys there are all good friends.”

Bob nods. “Cool. Well, have fun, try not to die.”

“I promise I won’t die. Bye.”

Frank gives Bob a brief hug, before practically bounding up the staircase. He’s normally not excited about _anything,_ but he’s not going to question his excitement over the anticipation of seeing Gerard.

 

“Frank! Gerard! You guys should come with us.” Brendon bounces up to the couple, a wide grin already alerting all around him to the fact that he has concocted an evil plan.

“Where?” Gerard questions warily, as if remembering the last time that he took advice from Brendon.

“To a Death Spells show. They’re playing at that bar, the one like three blocks from here? Ryan an’ I are going, you two should come. Oh!” His eyes light up, and spin around to face the kitchen. “Maybe ‘Trickster and Pete will come.”

He hurries off to inquire about the situation, leaving Frank extremely confused.

“He didn’t even wait to hear our answer,” he informs his boyfriend, puzzled. Gerard sneaks a kiss while he is distracted.  
“Short attention span. So, you guys coming or not?” Ryan looks entirely unamused at Brendon’s antics, the only hint that he even notices is a slight upward tug of his lip.

“When?” Gerard inquires, still not entirely on board. Ryan glances at his watch.

“It’s in approximately…forty three minutes.”

Frank shrugs. He doesn’t have anything better to do. “Sure, but can you guys get away with just closing the shop like that?”  
Ryan shrugs. “Yeah. We can call it Gerard’s decision.”

He walks off, ignoring Gerard’s protest.

“I’m the one that always gets in trouble for their crazy schemes,” Gerard complains, but doesn’t seem too upset.

Which, of course, is the exact moment that Mikey and Ray decide to make an appearance.

“Don’t even look at me like that,” Ray chides before Frank can even open his mouth. “Bert gave me the day off. How I managed it, I still don’t know. Maybe it has something to do with my, quote, extreme inability to get some, unquote.”

Frank tries his hardest not to laugh when Gerard raises an eyebrow at his little brother. Mikey challenges him with a raised eyebrow of his own, and Ray just shakes his head.

“Anyway, I heard something about some concert today?”  
“There’s this concert that we’re all going to go to, you and Mikey should come. Just don’t ask Brendon about it,” Gerard advises, “I don’t want to hear the whole lecture _again._ ”

“Dually noted. Want to go Mikes?”

Mikey doesn’t seem to care, so Ray announces that they’re going.

It’s a squeeze to fit everyone into Ryan’s car when they finally leave, and Frank finds himself wondering why they didn’t just walk. Maybe it’s just him that walks everywhere, so he decides not to question it.

As it turns out, Brendon knows a guy who knows the bouncer so they get in for free. Immediately, Frank is bombarded by the noise and commotion all packed into such a small room. He recoils, gripping Gerard’s hand a bit tighter as they pass though the doorway. He’s used to the type of people that are present, he knows all too well what they keep hidden back in their minds until they have an outlet for their dirty little secrets, but he normally doesn’t see them in such large quantities. He never has been a fan of going to bars to pick up johns, or girls that are just a little too drunk to care. No, he prefers to let them come to him, on some desolate street corner or the occasional empty lot.

“Dude, this band is badass.”

At Ryan’s comment, Frank begins to actually listen for the band, something that he had not thought yet to do. Once he has disguised them from the constant _noise,_ he comes to discover that he has actually heard worse. Gerard is nodding beside him, in beat to the steady pounding of the drums.

“They’re good,” Gerard shouts to Frank over the noise. He gets a brief glimpse of Pete pulling Patrick closer to the stage. Patrick admittedly looked a little nauseous at the thought of the small mosh pit that had started to form. Quite on the contrary, Pete seems like he lives for this energy, feeds off of it, needs to be close as possible to the source and absorb the full effect. Frank wonders if this kind of energy is Pete’s addiction.

Gerard taps his shoulder and motions for them to move closer to the actual bar. Frank follows, and finds it quieter, which is a relief.

“Is this okay?” Gerard asks him once he can talk without shouting over the music.

“Yeah. This is great.” It truly is. Once Frank has gotten over his aversion to the noise and crowded atmosphere, he begins to see how Pete feeds off the raw energy of the people around them. He understands the thrill, the adrenaline rush, that the scene creates.

“I’m glad. I wasn’t sure if you were into things like this or not.” Gerard wraps his arm around Frank’s waist, allowing him to lean into Gerard’s warmth.

“I’m usually not,” the younger man confesses. “Usually I see local bands that don’t have nearly as much of a following as these guys do.”

“But it’s okay?”

Frank smiles and peppers light kisses into the crook of Gerard’s neck.

“More than okay,” he promises.

Brendon and Ryan have since disappeared, probably to make out in a broom closet somewhere. Frank sees Patrick slowly inching back away from the stage, Pete having decided to attempt to crowd surf. Patrick appears concerned for Pete’s health, but not nearly enough to try and stop him.

“Do they have a thing?” he questions his boyfriend, snuggling in closer to his shoulder. Gerard’s lip twitches into a smile.

“They are oblivious to their mutual undying love for each other, so if that counts as a thing, then yeah.”

Huh, Frank was fairly certain that they are a thing. Apparently not.

“I can see it,” he decides, leaning over to offer Gerard a lazy kiss. Gerard’s tongue slips easily into his mouth, exploring it with a sort of placid fascination. Frank easily submits to him, his own tongue intertwining with Gerard’s, but not fighting it. Gerard’s hand moves to rest possessively on Frank upper back, pressing him closer.

“Mmm, love you.” Frank murmurs into the kiss. They break apart, Frank resting against Gerard yet again.

“Love you too,” Gerard leaves his arm wrapped around Frank, and he allows himself to relax into the simple gesture.

The band onstage finishes their set, and screams a goodbye to the crowd. Patrick bolts back to where Frank and Gerard are standing, eager to escape being trampled by the rush to leave. Pete follows after him, looking thoroughly tousled by the crowd. His face is lit up in a blissful smile, words bubbling out of his mouth as if he doesn’t even process that he is speaking.

“This band is dope. Did you see the way that the guitarist destroyed that solo? Dude, and the vocalist absolutely killed the songs…”

He continues rambling, eyes shining in excitement. Patrick smiles and inserts commentary at appropriate moments, and Frank swears that he can see Pete falling in love with Patrick a little more each moment.

Brendon bounds up to them, shouting something about how Ryan should “hurry up or I’m leaving your ass here.”

“I drove us here, in _my_ car. Which I have the keys to,” Ryan reminds him, walking a bit slower just to spite him.

“I’ll hotwire it. I don’t know, just hurry the fuck up.”

“You don’t know how to hotwire a car!” Ryan gives him an incredulous look.

“I’ll learn,” Brendon shoots back, earning an eye roll from Ryan.

Pete launches into another excited narration of the show, this time directed at Brendon. Gerard tugs Frank toward the door, motioning for the others to follow.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

Frank’s body chills at the voice, one that he has heard many times.

“Gabe.” He turns to face the man, who is sneering in Frank’s direction. He recognizes him by his black hair that juts up from his thin face, and his wide smirk that never seems to dissipate. Gabe is one of Frank’s regulars, at least once a week. He is also one of the most abusive, if that is even a term that Frank is at liberty to use considering his job. Gabe is the reason for most of Frank’s bruises from week to week. He feels Gerard’s hand tense in his, and hopes desperately that Gabe leaves soon.

“Well if it isn’t Frankie boy. You know, I was just thinking about you.”

“Is that so.” Frank keeps his responses short and to the point [A/N: unlike the presidential candidates] in hopes that Gabe will get the point and go back to wherever he came from.

“I was just thinking about my cock in that tight little ass of yours. What do you say we ditch your friends here and take it to my place?”

He hears Patrick gasp behind him, probably in shock as he doesn’t know what Frank does at night. Gerard is continuing to tense, but thankfully keeping his mouth tightly closed. Frank signs, he can’t exactly lose one of his highest paying customers.

“Tell you what Gabe, give me an hour to…freshen up and I’ll swing by your place. Sound good?”

Gabe hesitates, but nods.

“Don’t be late,” he warns, but turns and walks away without complaint. Gerard hurriedly moves them all outside.

“What was that about?” Patrick bursts out, looking wildly between Gerard and Frank for answers. Pete stares at him, perplexed.

“Patrick,” he says slowly, “Frank is obviously a prostitute.”

Patrick turns to stare at Frank for confirmation . The man in question shrugs.

“We normally prefer the term sex worker, but yes, I am a hooker.”

Frank definitely doesn’t think that it is possible for Patrick’s eyes to get wider, but he manages it.

“A…hooker?” He squeaks, looking much akin to a child who just learned something that they didn’t ever want to know.

“I mean, I’m not surprised,” Ryan drawls from behind Frank, and he honestly cannot tell if his tone is accusing or nonchalant.

“Is…is it a problem?” Frank says, suddenly feeling a whole lot less sure of himself. If he’s rejected by Gerard’s friends…he’s not sure what he’ll do.

Ryan studies him, hooded eyes giving nothing away. He seems to stare into Frank’s very soul, after quickly sweeping his eyes over the entirety of Frank’s figure.

“It’s not a problem.” He decides, returning his gaze to his boyfriend. Casually, he drapes his arm over Brendon’s shoulders. A sign of possession, Frank notes. He glances over to Brendon, who shrugs.

“It was my idea, dude.”

Ryan glances at him, recognition washing over his features.

“Because of that one time that…was his name Jepha?”

Brendon shrugs. “Don’t remember, but he said he was stressed so I suggested it.”

Gerard is glaring daggers at Brendon, probably for voicing conversations that he would have rather been left private. Ryan looks over at Gerard.

“I bet he could show you a few things. In bed, I mean.” Ryan’s smirk is almost infuriating, and Gerard nods tersely.

Patrick is still looking shocked. Frank nervously turns his gaze to him.

“Uh, is it a problem for you?”  
“N-no!” Patrick assures him quickly. “I’m just surprised, I, uh, never expected…it’s completely fine though.”

Frank looks at the slightly shorter man next to him. “Pete? Uh, is it okay?”

Pete nods seriously. “I will fucking fight anyone that says it’s not.”

With that, the tension is broken and Gerard claps his hands together.

“Okay! Now that that is sorted out, I believe Frank here has somewhere to be?”

Frank almost blushes, he focuses on the ground in front of him.  
“Yeah. Can I come freshen up at the coffee shop beforehand, though?”

“Of course,” Patrick chimes, having apparently bounced back from his earlier shock. Gerard agrees and gives him a quick kiss before all of them pile back into Ryan’s car. Due to the volume of people and the small size of the car, Mikey is more than happy to climb onto Ray’s lap, as is Pete, except of course he sits on Patrick.

Frank shakes his head in amusement and sits next to his boyfriend, leaning his head into Gerard’s shoulder, mimicking their position from earlier. Mikey lays across the seat, utilizing Pete as a pillow, leaving Ray to smile in quiet amusement.

“You had a good time?” Gerard’s question is quiet, but undoubtedly directed at Frank.  
“Yeah, I did,” he answers immediately. Frank pulls face toward him so that he can capture his lips, and they kiss quietly for a few moments.

 “Get a room,” Ryan says without turning his head. Gerard flips him off without breaking the kiss.

 

 

Frank peeks around the wall into the kitchen. Pete stands, leaning against the refrigerator, with Patrick standing in front of him. The latter appears uncomfortable, he’s wringing his hands and shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“What do you want to talk to me about?” Pete’s voice rings out in the near-silent kitchen, bouncing off the various metal surfaces in an echo. Frank hears Patrick’s quick breaths, nervous stutter.

“U-uh Pete, I realized something yesterday. While you were talking to Mikey. I-um, I kind of,”

He breaks off, unsure of what to say. Pete gives him a skeptical look.

“What, ‘Trick? Just tell me. You know I won’t judge you or get mad or anything. What’s wrong?”

Patrick frantically shakes his head. “Nothing’s wrong! No, uh, I-”

He breaks off again, looking at the floor. Pete begins to look concerned, his eyebrows furrowing, eyes drawn.  

Frank knows that he really should leave, that it isn’t his conversation to listen to, but  _damn_ he wants to know if these idiots ever work up the nerve to tell each other how they feel.

“’Trick,” Pete says again, reaching forward to grab Patrick’s hands. “Just tell me.”

Patrick draws in a long breath. Then: “Pete, I love you. I mean-” he hurries to correct himself. “-Pete, I-I’m in love with you. We’ve been friends for so long and…now I’m telling you.”

Both Patrick and Frank wait with bated breath for Pete’s response. The younger boy looks shocked, mouth gaping open in surprise. He’s speechless, and Frank has never seen Pete speechless before in his life.

“Patrick, um, I-oh, fuck it.” Pete surges forward, his lips landing solidly on Patrick’s. Patrick’s hands fly up in surprise, but he hurries to return the kiss.

Frank represses a squeal. He can’t believe that they  _finally_ brought to light what everyone else in the entire world already knew. Patrick lifts Pete up onto the metal countertop, hands grasping Pete’s ass in order to hold him. He doesn’t bother to remove them when he has Pete situated on the counter. Pete leans into the kiss, his hands intertwined in Patrick’s short hair and mouth moving against his partner’s. When the two break apart, staring at each other and looking deliriously in love, Frank remembers to slip away from the corner.

He contains his desire to run to the doorway, where Gerard is hanging a ‘Closed’ sign.

“Gee, guess what?” He bounces on his toes, eager to reveal what he had seen. The older man turns and shoots him an amused look. “Hmm, what? Did we run out of coffee again?”

Gerard’s face legitimately pales at that possibility. Frank shakes his head.

“No. The two sexually-repressed lovebirds finally got over themselves and are currently violating about twelve health codes.”

Gerard smiles for a moment, before a stricken look flashes across his face.

“Wait, in the kitchen? Where the security camera is? That our  _boss_  could review at any time?”

Frank smiles and gives his hyperventilating boyfriend a chaste kiss. “You know Jamia never looks at the tape. Let them have their fun, and tomorrow make them clean the whole kitchen with a toothbrush.”

Frank catches Gerard’s grateful smile and gives him a sweet kiss on the nose before bouncing backward.

“Okay, well I’ve got to go but I’ll see you later baby?”

Gerard hugs him. “Of course baby, I’ll see you soon. Uh, have fun at work.”

Frank shoots him a withering look. “Always,” he deadpans, and with one final kiss leaves through the door to his nightly chore.

* * *

 

Gabe licks his lips and stares at Frank with the eyes of a predator staring down its prey. He reaches out and trails his fingers down Frank’s bare chest. Frank can feel his breath on his cheek, Gabe being mere inches from Frank’s body. It’s almost a relief how in control Gabe is, how used to this situation that he is. Gabe pushes Frank back onto the bed roughly, his naked body landing hard on top of Frank’s.

“Safeword,” he growls into Frank’s ear.

“Red light,” Frank answers, the same as always. It’s his standard safe word, given to his clients that even bother to ask and honor it. Not that he ever has to use it, because his limits are not even close to those of a person not in his industry.

As soon as he says the words, any barriers keeping Gabe from hurting him are lifted. Fingernails dig into Frank’s shoulders, finger-shaped bruises sure to form. Gabe isn’t into being a dom, he wants to inflict pain and he wastes no time in doing so. He is a sadist, no sugar coating needed.

He bites into Frank’s earlobe, and then roughly flips him over, inciting a squeak. His dark, gelled hair brushes briefly against Frank’s cheek as he falls onto his stomach.

“Count,” Gabe husks, preparing to strike. Frank nods almost imperceptibly, he’s so used to this that his mind can dull the pain that his body feels. Gabe doesn’t need him to get off on it, he just needs him to be a warm body to take it. At least with Gabe, he knows that he won’t be seriously injured or be left tied up, defenseless. Other times, Frank has been genuinely scared for his life the moment that he hears “safeword.”

Gabe’s hand comes into sharp contact with the skin of Frank’s ass. He jerks upward, gasping as he utters _“one.”_

Another hit, a barely contained gasp.

_“Two.”_

At ten, Gabe pauses to rub the reddening skin, revel at the masterpiece he has created on another’s body. The harsh burn is hard to ignore, but fuck does Frank try, thinking of anything and everything else.

He thinks of Gerard. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment? I'd love you forever.


	8. Gerard- Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wow this is an emotional rollercoaster. I'm not sorry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: pills kinda, kinda sex, I think that's it  
> Disclaimer: i have no band members in my closet. As far as you know. So none of these belong to me k? K. 
> 
> I'm back. I kinda proofread this but if you notice any errors let me know. Thx

This shouldn't be such a big deal. It _isn’t,_ not really, except for when it is, which unfortunately is an overwhelming majority of the time.

It almost angers Gerard, his addiction. Practically half of the world drinks coffee regularly and isn’t affected in the slightest. It seems so tame, to be addicted to a substance that so many people regularly ingest. At least with Frank’s, it’s not something that millions of people have no issue not getting addicted to. He shouldn’t burn for it, like an alcoholic burns for another drink, just one more shot to satisfy his craving. It’s embarrassing, because to everyone else it seems like such a small issue that he should just ignore it.

Except he can barely sleep always finds himself giving into his mind and shuffling down to the kitchen at two in the morning to make another cup. It would be comical, almost, if permanent lines weren’t beginning to form under Gerard’s bloodshot eyes. Mikey notices, only a few days after he arrives.

“You look like shit, Gee. What’s keeping you up this time?”  
Gerard told him, explained how he can’t seem to get through five minutes without the craving resurfacing. Mikey gives him a Concerned Brotherly Look, and suggests that maybe he needs to find work elsewhere so it isn’t readily available.

Gerard had flipped him off and went upstairs, trying to ignore the voice in his head telling him that Mikey is right. The coffee shop is familiar; it took him months before he was even comfortable enough there to voice his opinions.

And Frank. Frank knows about his addiction, Gerard had casually mentioned it, but he is certain that Frank does not know nearly the extent of the effects on Gerard.

He feels silly that he can’t kick such a simple dependence, has let itself manifest into the monster that it is today. He finds himself wishing that he had an addiction that actually seemed real, like drugs or smoking. He doesn’t really, of course, just a stray thought that he quickly deletes from his mind.

Now, staring at the empty coffee cup sitting in front of him, Gerard feels defeated. He feels like he’s powerless against himself, and that alone feels like a knife cutting deeply into his chest.

Footsteps sound behind him, and he turns just as Frank sits down next to him. His hair is tousled, wet from the shower that he just took. He’s wearing Gerard’s clothes, as Gerard had deemed his far too dirty to wear even though Frank claims that he just put them on. Bruises peek out from under the fabric of the shirt, dark red and blue and a sickly green, revealing what Gabe had quite obviously used Frank for.

“Thanks for letting me use your shower. I was fucking gross.” Frank leans over to lock lips with Gerard in a leisurely kiss, the kind where it feels like obligations fall away and time stretches for as long as needed.

“’Course,” Gerard says when they break apart. He can’t help staring at Frank, he’s still somewhat in awe that Frank a _ctually agreed_ to be in his presence, much less his boyfriend.

"What are you doing? I don't think staring at the empty coffee cup is going to magically fill it."  
Frank gives Gerard a quizzical look as he questions him. Gerard merely shrugs. Frank's face instantly transforms to one of deadly seriousness.  
"Tell me. I really doubt that whatever is going on in your brain will shock me."  
Gerard hesitates. Frank is right, he doubts he can turn Frank away with his admittedly tame thoughts.  
"Um, just thinking about how a cup of such a simple, commonplace thing can control me so...so thoroughly."  
Frank nods, resting his head on his palm.  
"I get that. How could such a nasty job control me?"  
Somehow, his sympathy spurs Gerard to talk.  
"I just...I don't know, I feel helpless and I hate it. I guess it's the nature of the beast, nature of the addiction rather."  
Frank picks up the empty cup and takes it to Gerard's kitchen. He turns on the sink and fills the cup to the brim with water from the tap, and then carries it back to Gerard. He sets the now full cup down in front of him, and then takes his seat once more.  
Gerard stares at in confusion. He didn't ask for water, he isn't thirsty, so why did Frank fill up the cup?  
"Um, I'm not thirsty dude. Thanks for the thought though."  
"No." Frank says impatiently, gesticulating wildly at the cup.  
"I'm trying to prove a point. The cup doesn't control you, dude. It's full and you don't want what's in it."  
Gerard is still confused. "I want the coffee, not the cup."

“Yeah,” Frank agrees, his eyes still boring holes into the object of discussion. “But that’s not the point. I…Think about it, I think you’ll get it.”

“I guess.”

Gerard shakes his head to dismiss the topic from his brain.  
“Anyway, I had this idea for my comic and I was going to jot it down really quickly.”

“Okay,” Frank moves over so that Gerard can safely exit the table without running into anything. “I think I’m going to go to Bob’s and pick up some more of my stuff.”

“Okay,” Gerard replies absently, his mind already on the storyline buzzing in his head. He hardly registers the quick goodbye kiss from Frank before he is engrossed in jotting down notes in some hopelessly jumbled order.

Time stretches meaninglessly, and Gerard begins to draw small sketches of how a new character might look. He is so into his work that he doesn’t notice Mikey storming in until the door slams behind him.

“I fucking hate him. He’s a fucking asshole.”

Gerard looks over, and after rubbing the concentration out of his eyes he sees the tears flowing freely down Mikey’s cheeks. In his rush to get up, he trips over the chair leg and brings the chair crashing down next to him. He ignores it, and hastily joins his little brother on the couch.

“Who?” he questions, even though he is fairly sure that he knows the answer.

“Ray.” Mikey’s voice is a barely contained wail, a tone saturated with tears. “Ray, wants to-God, Gerard, he wants to join the fucking army. He’s a complete asshole, he, he wants to leave, Gerard. Leave!”

Gerard shushes him softly, his hands rubbing circles into his brother’s back. He wishes that he could transfer the pain to himself, or at least take it away, even for a little while. Mikey has always been the most important person in Gerard’s life and it hurts him to see his brother so…broken.

“Oh, Mikes, why does he want to…” he refuses to say "leave", because Gerard knows that Ray is not doing this because he wants to leave Mikey. At least that’s what he wants to believe, he refuses to believe that Ray is that shitty of a human being.

“His-his grandfather d-did it, was in the navy or some shit, so now h-he wants to like carry on the legacy or some o-other shit that I don’t care about because I don’t want him to go!”

 _Fuck,_ Gerard hurts for him. Is pained by the situation, and how unfair it is when two people with differing stances think that they are completely in the right. Mikey is a blubbering mess, choking out every other word, his tears relentless. Since Mikey is usually so stoic, it’s a shocking and upsetting difference to see him in tears.

“Mikes, shh, it’ll…work out. Did you talk to Ray about this?”

Mikey nods, not even speaking. He can’t, Gerard assumes, he’s still choking on tears.

“Okay, um, assume that didn’t go well? Mikey, I know it’s hard but Ray isn’t doing this just to leave you. I’m sure he _wants_ to stay. And Mikey? How long are you planning on visiting anyway? Doesn’t mom miss you?”

Mikey shakes his head. “No,” he coughs out, “I said I didn’t know how long I was going to be gone for. So it’s fine, she won’t worry.”

 _Good._ He had never brought it up for fear of ripping off an emotional scab-perhaps Mikey and their parents had fought. Now, though, it appears that Mikey really did just want to see him.

Gerard quickly slips his phone out of his pocket and sends Frank a quick text, _Mikey's here and he's really upset._

Hopefully Frank will understand, maybe offer help of some sort. _  
_ "Mikey, I know you're really distraught, what can I do?"

“J-just hold me.” Mikey requests. Gerard reflects how close they are compared to other siblings.  
They end up watching some movie that Gerard has never seen but that seems to comfort Mikey. He is curled up in Gerard's lap, tears finally dried and eyes bloodshot and puffy from crying. They stay like that, the movie playing on a loop and Mikey too upset to care, until Frank practically tiptoes through the door. He's holding Chinese carry out, and he carefully sets in down on the table in front of the couch.  
"Mikey, honey, oh God. What happened?" Frank's hushed whisper is in stark contrast to the loud television. His last two words are directed at Gerard, but Mikey answers anyway.  
"Ray, he wants to leave. He wants to join the Army." Mikey's words have changed from his former anger to heartbreaking hopelessness.  
Frank's face hardens slightly. "Is that why you're mad at him? Look, Mikey, I'm sure that nothing is confirmed. And really, it's his decision."  
Mikey nods miserably. "Yeah, but it just feels like he's leaving me."  
"No." Frank shakes his head and hands Gerard and Mikey two of the carry out containers. "Ray is too good of a guy to do that. Now, after we eat I need you to go and apologize to him for flipping your shit, and then maybe listen to all of his facts and circumstances."

Mikey’s eyes widen and he immediately shakes his head. “I don’t think I can face him after…what I said.”

Gerard kisses the top of Mikey’s head. “Oh, Mikey,” he mumbles. His brother falls for people fast and hard, which is why the termination of all of his prior relationships had seemed like the end of the world at the time.

“I’m sure he’ll forgive you. Ray’s a good guy, I’m sure that he gets it.” Frank has taken a seat next to his boyfriend, has greeted him with a kiss.

Gerard whispers his thanks into Franks ear, all the while keeping his comforting grip on Mikey.

“Call him then,” Frank persists, not willing to let the topic go. Mikey makes a small sound akin to a frightened rabbit and timidly nods.

“Okay,” he breaths, “I’ll call him. But…I don’t want to lose him, Frank.”

Although Gerard knows that Frank won’t judge his brother, he can’t help but feel insanely protective of Mikey, and how when he becomes attached to someone, how it feels like he must physically rip himself away from them to let go. Often, Gerard thinks that his brother is emotionally stronger than he is, an inexplicable thought considering the mess that Mikey is now.

“I know Mikey. But I know that Ray will listen-or, uh, understand if you just talk to him. He’s not a bad person,” Frank tells Mikey again. He reaches out to lay a comforting hand on Mikey’s shoulder, but Mikey just curls deeper into Gerard’s chest. Gerard grimaces slightly at Frank in apology, but Frank just shrugs and continues to eat.

Unaware of what just took place, Mikey looks up at his brother, lip trembling slightly.

“Will you stay with me while I call Ray?”

Gerard suddenly sees Mikey of four years ago in his brother, just a frightened teenager with no idea how to handle his emotions. He finds himself assuring Mikey that he’ll not even let go of him while he talks to Ray.

“I can leave for a bit,” Frank says, looking over to Mikey. He shrugs.

“I don’t care, you can do whatever.”

Frank looks confused until Gerard nods at him.  
“Stay.”

“Okay.” Frank settles back down onto the couch, and Mikey pulls out his phone. He gulps, but presses his first speed dial and selects speaker.

Gerard’s impressed, he hasn’t even had a chance to add Frank’s number to his favorites. Because he’s not a fucking loser and has a _real_ phone.

The static-y sound of ringing emits from Mikey’s phone, each ring seeming to take five minutes.

“Hello? Mikey?” Ray’s voice answers, sounding stained.

“R-Ray. Hi. Um, I-we need to talk.”

“Yeah.” Ray agrees, his voice remaining even.

Mikey draws in a breath, eyes brimming with tears once again. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry. I-It’s your choice if you want to, uh, l-leave. I freaked out because I thought you were leaving so you could leave me but Frank said that you would never do that and so did Gee and I know you wouldn’t. But. I just, I don’t want you to go.”

“Oh, Mikes.” Ray’s voice is choked too at this point. “I didn’t know why you were mad, you just ran out. We could have talked; I could have explained. I don’t want to leave you Mikey, that’s not why. I think we need to talk about this in person. Can you come over? I don’t know if you should drive, I could come get you?”  
“Gee’ll drive me.” Mikey says, glancing at his brother for confirmation. Gerard shrugs and nods. Not like he has anything better to do.

“Okay.” Ray’s quiet sigh is picked up by the phone. “I’ll see you soon, okay baby?”

“Okay.” Mikey’s quiet promise is hardly able to be heard, and he ends the call.

“Let’s go,” Gerard tells him softly. Frank throws him his keys.

 

 

“Fuck, I’m sorry that I had to drive him.”

Frank shakes his head and pressed Gerard into the couch.

“It’s not a big deal. He’s your little brother, you exist to make sure he makes it to age forty.”

Gerard chuckles and reaches back to grasp Frank’s hair.

“I guess. I am sorry, though.”  
Frank smirks, a mischievous gleam in his eye. He bites a wet kiss into Gerard’s collarbone.

“I can think of a few ways for you to make it up to me.”

“Oh really?” Gerard leans forward and kisses the smaller man, who promptly shoves him into the couch and proceeds to devour his mouth, metaphorically, with his own.

“Feisty today I see.” Gerard’s chuckle is breathless, his senses being overwhelmed by the sheer amount of _Frank_ pressing down on him, exploring his body with eager hands.

“Shut up,” Frank tells him helpfully, hands pawing at his shoulders to relieve his boyfriend of his shirt. Not that Gerard minds, the less clothes on both him and Frank the better.

Gerard pushes Frank away for a moment to pull his shirt over his head, and when he has successfully rid himself of the garment, he finds Frank tugging at the zipper on his jeans.

Gerard mouths at Frank’s neck while he works, teeth grazing his boyfriend’s skin just enough to leave red lines across the tender skin.

Frank pulls Gerard’s pants off of him and smiles in victory.

“Fucking finally,” he says into his boyfriend’s mouth, hardly blinking when Gerard pulls him closer in an attempt to take off his clothes.

“Want some help with that?” Frank chuckles, at Gerard’s third unsuccessful attempt to unbutton his fly. The elder growls but allows Frank to undress himself so the process goes more quickly.

“Bed?” Frank questions, still miraculously aware, unlike Gerard’s haze of lust that he is currently operating in.

“Fuck. Yes.”

They stumble down the hallway, and Gerard is quite certain that they are going to die on the way up the stairs. He loses his footing twice when engrossed in a kiss, and Frank stumbles back a few steps when Gerard bites too hard.

“Sorry,” Gerard says, kissing the bite mark and hoping it will go away. He doesn’t want to upset Frank, in fact that’s the _last_ thing that he wants.

“Fuck, Gee, no. I mean-that was good. You can do it again. If you want.”

His sentences are stunted, largely do to the fact that Gerard has him pressed down onto the bed and his tongue is currently where what some people would refer to as a throat. Both of their breaths come out in short gasps, the playful nature of the interaction beginning to dissipate into concentration.

Gerard feels Frank’s kisses trail up his neck, stopping in the indent to sink his teeth in just enough to draw blood. Gerard gasps and jerks up against him, his moans drowning out Frank’s chuckle.

“Holy shit Gee,” he says, licking over the bite and moving his hand down Gerard’s stomach. “You are a kinky little shit.”

Gerard would argue, but it’s kind of difficult when Frank is smirking seductively at him from between his legs.

Besides, he knows that it’s true. Why deny it.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              

 

“Fuck, Gee, I have to get up.”

Gerard groans, not wanting to get off of his shifting boyfriend.

“I gotta go to work. Huh, for once I really really don’t want to. I’d rather stay here with you.”

“I’ll take that as a complement.” Gerard rolls over to glance at the clock on his bedside table.

“Fuck.” His voice is husky from sleep, a blissful nap so rudely interrupted by his lovely boyfriend. Who for some reason, can’t have a job that operates on normal hours.

“Sorry, but money and stuff.”

Gerard groans and pulls Frank closer.

“I’ll pay you to stay here. Please? I jus’ wanna snuggle with my boyfriend. Bed’s cold without you here.”

Gerard sees Frank hesitate, and then sink back into the bed.

“Alright, but just tonight. Tomorrow night I gotta work, okay?”

Gerard smiles and pulls Frank into him.

“Thank you baby. I’ll pay you in blowjobs. When I’m not so tired.”

Frank laughs, the sound muffled by his contact with Gerard. “I’ll be sure to take you up on that. Sleep now, blowjobs later, okay?”

“Okay.” Gerard’s word trails off, him already sinking back into sleep. He’s vaguely aware of his boyfriend muttering words into his ear, but he’s too far gone to hear him.

It brings a blissful smile to Gerard’s face when he realizes that he has the luxury of waking up with his nose pressed against Frank’s hair.

“Mm, what time is it?” he asks, eyes too fuzzy due to just waking up to read the clock. Frank groans and rolls over to face the glowing red numbers.  
“It’s just after ten.” He informs Gerard, rolling back over and closing his eyes. Gerard realizes that Frank is probably usually asleep at this time, it’s the middle of his night.

“Fuck.” Gerard shoots up into a sitting position, fully awake within seconds. “I have work. I was supposed to be there, uh, like two hours ago. Jamia’s going to kill me.”

Gerard starts to hastily pull clothes out of his closet, not really paying attention to what he dresses himself in. Frank watches in amusement from the bed, far too lazy to get up when he really doesn’t have to.

A thought occurs to Gerard, and he stills.

“Was I supposed to pick up Mikey?”

His face is a mask of terror, and Frank hurries to assure him that he is not in fact the worst big brother to ever grace the face of the earth.

“I’m sure he and Ray either made up and he’s currently fucking Ray’s brains out or he found a different ride home.”

Gerard grimaces. “Please never say that again. That is disturbing, ugh I don’t want to think about my _little brother_ in that situation.”

“Sorry,” Frank offers, but he’s still grinning. Gerard is already going back to getting dressed, because _fuck_ he is already so late.

“Baby,” Frank catches him before he all but runs out of his bedroom door. “Have fun at work, okay? I promise that no one will be mad at you for being late. I promise, okay?”

Gerard takes a breath to calm himself, because he is in fact _very_ sure that everyone will be mad at him for being late.

“Okay,” he says. He doesn’t mean it, but Frank doesn’t need to know that. Frank seems satisfied enough with that response, and pulls him in for a lingering kiss before he allows Gerard to leave.

As it turns out, no one really cares about the time of his arrival. He finds Pete and Patrick taking advantage of their new relationship status and making out suspiciously near the kitchen, and Brendon and Ryan are in the middle of some heated argument about how to pronounce the plural of “mouse”.

“It’s mouses!” Brendon maintains, in a voice far too hyper to belong to an adult male. But then again, Gerard is fairly certain that Brendon never really has grown up.

“Brendon,” Ryan says, patience dripping from his voice, “one mouse is called a mouse. Multiple mice are called “mice”.”

Brendon playfully throws a paper towel at Ryan’s head. “No, it’s one mouse and many mouses.”

“Mice?” A voice asks, and Gerard whirls around to see an elderly woman standing at the counter.

“Does this place have mice?” He nose turns up at the words, seeming disgusted that she even has to think them. Gerard shoots a dirty look at Brendon and Ryan, and then rushes to the counter.

“No, no mice.” He assures he. “Those two idiots-uh, my coworkers are having a very immature argument on how to pronounce the plural of mouse. Is there anything I can get for you?”

“No mice?” She asks, still suspicious.

“No mice.” He promises, taking the opportunity to shoot another glare at the couple, who can hardly contain their laughter.

“Okay, in that case I’ll have…” she rattles off her order, and Gerard makes sure that he gives it to Brendon to fill. The look that Brendon shoots at him is _completely_ undeserved if Gerard does say so himself. He makes sure to give the woman a reassuring smile, one that he hopes conveys the distinct lack of mice in the establishment. She doesn’t look entirely convinced.

Brendon gets the woman her drink, and Gerard wanders off to throw a towel at Pete and Patrick.

“Get a room or come actually work,” He advises, much to Pete’s annoyance. Patrick just looks terrified, like Gerard would _fire_ him or something, and nods rapidly.

“Patrick, dude, it’s fine I totally get it. This just…isn’t a great place.”

“Yeah.” Patrick’s voice is small, and for a second Gerard thinks that he might cry. He looks helplessly at Pete, who immediately jumps to action and begins to comfort his boyfriend.

“I’ll make you some coffee. And Gerard doesn’t get any, okay? Okay, ‘Trick?”

Satisfied that his job is done, Gerard ignores the craving that the word “coffee” creates and goes back to work the register. 

Ryan has his hand covering his face, shaking with laughter. Gerard moves his gaze to the register to see Brendon talking to the elderly woman that just ordered coffee.

He’s leaning over the counter, gesturing animatedly and talking loudly.

“My boyfriend doesn’t believe me. He says it’s “mice”.”

“Dear,” the woman smiles condescendingly at him. “I think your boyfriend is very smart. You should listen to him.”

Brendon huffs and continues to debate the plural of mouse with her.

Gerard shakes his head. He has no idea how he ended up with these complete losers as friends.

Patrick appears behind him, closely followed by Pete.

“What can we do?” He’s breathless, but seems like Pete managed to calm him down.

“Uh, just fill orders for a while. Maybe get Brendon to do something other than argue with old ladies, that would be nice.”

“I call that,” Pete says, going over to Brendon. They’ll probably manage to convince the woman that the plural of mouse really is mouses but at this point Gerard doesn’t even care.

Patrick heads to the kitchen, and pulls Ryan with him.

Gerard goes to the register, breathing a sigh of relief when he sees that Brendon and Pete have since dispersed.

He chews through a layer of skin on his lip attempting not to think about caffeine, and scratches through he skin on his palm. He only terminates the activity when he observes Mikey and Ray walking through the door.

Mikey looks drained, but the smile is back on his face and his hand is tightly clutching Ray’s as if he is afraid to let him go. He is quick to answer Gerard’s unspoken question.

“We’re good. Ray is…still going, but we’ve decided on things so that it won’t hurt as bad. For either of us.”

“Like Skype calls,” Ray supplies and plants a kiss onto Mikey’s forehead. Gerard sees the bliss on his brother’s face, and for a brief moment is angry at Ray for even thinking about leaving.

“it helps that I’m living in constant denial,” Mikey continues, “I just won’t think about it until he leaves.”  
_Terrible plan,_ Gerard thinks. “Solid plan,” he says.

“I do have one question,” he says, looking hard at Ray. “Why now? Why leave directly after you start a new relationship?”

Ray shrugs helplessly. “I’ve been planning on doing this for a while. Since my grandfather passed. Mikey…I wasn’t expecting to fall for him, much less date. I thought it would just be a hook up, you know? But I know I need to go into the Army, I don’t know I can just tell. And I really hate to go, I’m going to miss you so much Mikes.”

Mikey leans into Ray and allows him to stroke his hair. Gerard is comforted by Ray’s words; the decision doesn’t seem quite as spontaneous anymore.

 

Gerard walks into his home, blinks once, and unfortunately still sees the same image. Frank, laying on his couch, Bert hovered over him. Frank has a blissful smile, giggling like a little kid. Bert is clutching Frank’s throat, desperately yelling at him.

“Fuck, Frank! Just throw them up, please, God, throw them up.” He’s crying, Gerard notes, his face red form the effort of holding in tears.

“Don’ wanna…” Frank giggles again, pawing at Bert’s hand. “Ge’ off of me. I’m fine…” He draws out the word, and then looks up at Bert.

“Berty, I promise, I’m fine.” He inclines his head and plants a chaste kiss on Bert’s lips.

Gerard’s blood boils. He can’t believe Frank has the _nerve_ to kiss another man in _his_ house. Frank looks over to the doorway, sees him.

“Gee!” Frank's face brightens at the sight of him. Gerard simply can't find it in himself to feel the same.

Bert flushes and looks over to Gerard. His mouth gapes open for a moment, but he snaps it shut when Frank tries to get up.

“No, Frankie baby, stay laying down. Unless you’re willing to go throw up then you have to stay down. Okay?”

Gerard’s rage reaches a boiling point. Bert knows he saw, doesn’t even seem to care.

“What the fuck Frank?” Gerard finally bursts out, keeping an eye on Bert. Frank cowers, lower lip beginning to tremble.

“Are you mad, Gee? Why are you mad?”

Gerard shakes his head in disbelief. “You fucking _kissed_ him Frank. At least break up with me before you cheat. Have some decency.”

Frank, to his credit, looks confused.

“What? Cheat? Berty and I kiss all the time.”

Not the right thing to say.

“Get out.”

Gerard’s voice is cold, unforgiving. He can’t handle things, just wants to go hide under a pile of blankets and never wake up.

“Gerard, he took some pills. I don’t know what, he won’t tell me, but he’s pretty fucked up. He doesn’t have a good history with…pills.”

Gerard doesn’t care. He doesn’t even want to know why they are at his house instead of Frank’s-or his friend’s house, he can’t remember his name. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t.

He says as much. “I don’t fucking care. Get out, both of you. Frank, we’re done.”

Frank visibly begins to cry, and pushes Bert off of him. He lifts his chin, much like a small child having an argument.

“Fuck you! Just-Fuck you, Gerard.”  
Frank’s words are like a sharp steel knife slashing though his chest, desecrating his organs. He wishes they were, because then he would be dead, not shaking in rage at the man that he thought he loved.

“Fuck off, Frank. I fucking trusted you. Now leave.”

It’s almost too much for him, he almost stops him, forgives him for what he did. But he doesn’t, can’t, simply accepts Bert’s piercing look and Frank’s hurt physique.

Fuck him. Gerard doesn’t let any other explanation for the kiss run across his mind, and goes to his kitchen to brew a pot of coffee.

He doesn’t break down until he sees Frank’s sweatshirt laying haphazardly on the countertop.


	9. Frank- Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *dramatic music* will they make up? Or will they... _hate each other forever??_ Find out by reading this chapter!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I realize I suck at writing smut. But like this fic is about a hooker so...idk I felt like it had to be there somewhere. Apologies for the bad smut tho. 
> 
> Disclaimer: don't own band members, so don't sue me
> 
> Warnings: sex, gay (idk why i always list this its kinda a given), drugs

Falling back into old addictions is easy, effortless. Frank’s still fucked up, but what he took has weakened his mind, made his misery ten times worse than it should be. He needs an escape, runs from Bert when the older man isn’t looking. He’s blubbering, snot running down his face and tears reddening his cheeks. Bare feet pound on the pavement, harsh concrete particles stinging the hardened skin, but Frank doesn’t notice. He’s numb to the pain, numb to everything. Numb to the chill bite of splinters that embed into his skin when he collides with a building. Numb to the painful crack that sounds when he catches himself with the palms of his hands. He doesn’t stop, keeps running, dead to pain, his emotions, and the world. He can feel the chemicals in his bloodstream though, their effects urging him onward.

Frank doesn’t even remember why he took the pills, only that he found them in Bert’s bedroom while the former was making lunch. They weren’t labeled, he doesn’t remember if they were. It doesn’t matter anyway. The fact remains that he took them, experienced the blissful high, and is now feeling the awful low. He’s paranoid, scared of the street, the humans surrounding him, but is also terrified of his own shadow.

So he runs, panting, tears stinging in the wind created by his motions.

He needs to find _anyone,_ doesn’t even care if he gets paid. Frank can practically taste the salty sweat that will permeate from his skin, the skin of his hookup’s. Like Gerard’s-

 _Fuck._ No. No, no he has to block Gerard from his mind. Probably permanently. He just needs the filth and corruption of another body faceless to him. Doesn’t want a name, or a figment of who the person is outside of a warm body fucking him. No identity. He’s just Frank the whore, and they’re John, or Lisa, or fucking nobody.

His legs give out and he falls heavily to his knees. They hit the pavement with a resounding crack, and pain shoots up his legs from his kneecaps. Frank bites down on his lip and immediately tastes blood, which reminds him of the man that he now believes that he hates. Bile rises in his throat, the putrid taste of it staining his saliva. His own puke hits the ground in front of him, but he doesn’t feel like this is real. Feedback from his environment hits him at a snail’s pace.

Frank feels displaced, separate from his own reality. The stench of vomit permeates his senses, tangles with his head and causes it to spin unpleasantly. Frank tips forward to recollect himself, when his body relaxes and he falls forward.

He doesn’t even attempt to get up, has no reason too. His thoughts can’t process due to the chemicals clogging his system, and he doesn’t think he could get up if he tried.

He closes his eyes content in the knowledge that whatever mixture of pills that he took will probably kill him.

 

* * *

 

 

Bert finds Frank lying in a pool of his own vomit. His head is tilted forward onto the ground, and his arms curled protectively around him. He’s shaking, shivering. Also, he appears to be passed out.

Bert’s heart clenches with concern, he has a sinking feeling that Frank took a combination of pills, pills that should not be mixed without the intent of a drawn out, painful death.

He gulps down a nervous breath and cautiously approaches his friend.

“Frankie baby? Are you conscious?”

He receives no response other than a twitching arm that indicates life. At least he has that.

Bert kneels down next to the unconscious boy. Because really, Frank is still a teenager. Fuck, the kid is eighteen, Bert can hardly believe how much life has warped him into his current life and morals.

He reaches out to stroke Frank’s hair in an attempt to give himself a moment to think rationally. He’s utterly pissed off at Gerard for interpreting Frank’s playful kiss as anything more than platonic affection, and it is taking everything in him not to go kill that son of a bitch for reducing Frank to his current dismal state.

After Bert forces himself to decide that Gerard simply isn’t worth the jail time, not yet anyway, not until he makes sure that Frank is safe, he carefully picks him up bridal-style. Frank murmurs incoherently, small sounds that slip listlessly out of his vocal cords. He’s limp, and heavy due to that fact, however his small stature significantly reduces how much weight Bert has to carry.

Frank’s head lolls over Bert’s arm, mouth open and caked with dried vomit. Bert has to remind himself again of the consequences of killing a man. Specifically, an evil man with shaggy black hair and a job at a coffee shop.

Bert’s car is parked haphazardly by a brick building that looks like it was built a thousand years ago. He carefully sets Frank down so that he is laying across the back seat, arms hanging off of the side and nearly touching the car floor. Bert kisses his forehead gently before he climbs into the driver’s seat. He’s terrified for Frank but as long as he’s breathing Bert isn’t going to Panic(!). Frank’s been worse, he reminds himself, much worse. He’s been puking out his guts on Bert’s kitchen floor, been sobbing and shaking laying on the floor of Bert’s bathroom, and been curled up and too fucked up to even open his eyes wrapped up in blankets on Bert’s bed. Of course, that was all last year…when Frank had been addicted to Ecstasy. There was one time, and Bert gets angry even thinking about it, that Frank came home high on Heroin and convinced that he was going to die. From that moment on Bert has maintained that Frank is simply not one of those people that can handle drugs and has subsequently banned Frank from ingesting any. Except for…except for that party. Bert prefers not to think about it, because then he will blame himself for Frank thinking about drugs again, and for taking the pills that are currently in his system.

Bert’s knuckles as white as his hands clutch the steering wheel.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The first thing that occurs to Frank as he wakes up is that he’s still alive. And that his head fucking hurts, what did he _do?_ It is also to be noted that he is on Bert’s bed, not much of a surprise to him. And he’s pretty certain that he’s wearing one of Bert’s t shirts and no pants.

“Bert?” His voice is tempered by a croak caused deep in his throat. He’s also fairly certain that he spoke too quietly to be heard.

“Bert,” he calls again, voice scratchy but audible. He tries to open his eyes to no anvil. The throbbing in his head simply won’t subside no matter how much he attempts to ignore it.

“Frankie? Frankie! You’re awake! Fuck, you were passed out forever dude.”

“I was?” Frank presses his eyes against the pillow in an attempt to block out any and all light. “What did I do? Fuck, my head hurts. Did I drink? Where’s Gerard?”

He hears Bert’s sharp intake of breath.

“Uh, baby, you took some of my pills. I don’t know which ones but you got pretty fucked. And I think you fell and hit your head on the sidewalk, so that probably accounts for the headache.”  
Frank nods into the soft fabric. “And Gerard?”  
Bert  shifts uncomfortably. “You guys broke up.”

“Wha-” it all comes crashing back to him. The pills. Kissing Bert. Gerard seeing. Holy _fuck,_ he’s so fucked.

“Fuck Bert, I majorly fucked up. I-I-I…holy shit, I have to talk to him.”

Bert’s eyebrows draw together, lines deepening around his lips. He takes a breath, words carefully calculated.

“Frank I don’t think that you should. He was a major dick, he didn’t even let you explain.”

Frank groans and rolls over. He knows that Bert is only trying to look out for him but _fuck,_ he cannot believe that he kissed Bert in Gerard’s home.

“I know baby, but maybe he has trust issues. I don’t know but I can’t just avoid this and hope it goes away.”

He’s done that before, and he is perfectly aware that it just makes everybody in the equation miserable.

Bert nods reflectively. “I admire your maturity. I-just, are you sure you can handle whatever happens?”

Frank nods. “I’m not a child. Now let me go find him, I-I don’t think he works today.”

Frank’s voice shakes, betraying his nervousness. Bert kisses his forehead to wish him good luck.

“Alright, Frankie, but if he’s a dick then go ahead and come back, okay?”  
Frank agrees, and sets off to steal Bert’s food and painkillers before he leaves.

 

* * *

 

 

Actually talking to Gerard seems better in theory than in practice. Frank is halfway out of the door before he decides that Gerard probably hates him anyway. He abruptly turns around and crawls back into Bert’s bed, ignoring his questioning gaze.

“Not up to it,” he says, letting himself sink into the pain of his headache so he doesn’t feel quite so guilty. Bert stares at him for a moment, and then crawls into bed next to him.

“Okay, that’s reasonable. Tell you what, after you wake up we can take a shower because no offense dude, but you smell fucking nasty.”

“I collapsed in a pool of vomit,” Frank defends from the pillow his head is immersed in.

“Which is why your clothes are currently being burned. But anyway, after we get you smelling like a fucking spring breeze, then you can reconsider talking to Gerard. I doubt he’ll take you back smelling like you do.”

“Fuck off,” Frank groans, praying to every God ever believed in just to let him sleep. He hears a muffled chuckle and feels Bert place a soft kiss on the back of his neck. Then he’s gone, probably to actually be a productive human being, and Frank is left alone with his thoughts.

 

* * *

 

 

“Fucker! Come back!” Bert has gleefully leapt out of the shower, supposedly to go grab towels, leaving Frank with half washed hair.

“Aw, does Frankie not know how to was his own hair?” Bert smirks, although he returns to the cascade of warm water in order to finish what he started.

Frank still can’t believe that he managed to sleep the entirety of yesterday, but it’s a new day ripe and ready for new choices.

Such as going to the coffee shop and hiding in the corner so Gerard doesn’t know he’s there. Frank himself came up with the genius plan, directly before Bert shoved him into the shower, saying that “he’ll smell you and then you wouldn’t be very hidden, now would you.”   
Frank relaxes into Bert’s chest, letting the feeling of his hands in Frank’s hair lull him into a state of semi-consciousness. It’s a nice distraction from his impending panic at possibly seeing Gerard, possibly _talking_ to him.

All too soon, the water runs cold and Bert pulls Frank out of the shower and hands him a towel.

“Go get dressed, we’re leaving in five.” Bert commands.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Frank says, but goes to do it anyway.

 

* * *

 

Bert elects to let Frank hide from Gerard alone, so when Frank pushes open the smudged glass door to the shop he is the only one who sees the…sight in front of him.

Ryan is pressing Brendon against the counter, hands clutching at his shirt, pulling him closer. Brendon’s producing happy little whines, and moans to urge Ryan on. Frank supposes that it’s good that there’s precisely zero customers to witness the sight.

“Bren, hmm, stop. Uh, hey Frank.”

Frank waves his hands at them in a universal “no, continue” gesture. “Don’t stop on account of me, I don’t care. I imagine that Pete and Patrick are doing much the same thing, except perhaps with a bit more subtlety.”

Ryan shrugs. “Probably. I think Gerard’s home moping if that’s who you’re looking for.”

Frank’s eyes widen. “Home? But he never misses work.” Gerard wouldn’t miss work unless his ears are bleeding and even then Frank isn’t sure that he wouldn’t just put on a hat.

Brendon copies Ryan’s shrug. “He was pretty torn up. Did you guys fight? Anyway, yeah, he said he needed to stay home.”

Frank freezes. Gerard lives for this, lives for the coffee and the only social interaction he ever gets. Although Frank rationalizes that the last part is probably Gerard’s choice.

“Oh. Well, I guess I’ll be leaving soon. Want me to flip the sign? It’s almost five anyway.”

He receives an affirmative in the form of a groan, and Frank would be bothered, except sex is so commonplace to him that he hardly notices.

He throws a goodbye over his shoulder, flips the sign, and leaves the shop.

 

* * *

 

 

He finds Gerard curled up on his couch, attacking a sketchpad with deep concentration and a few dozen colored pencils. Frank didn’t exactly mean to burst into Gerard’s house unannounced, but now that he’s here he might as well stay.

“Gerard? We, uh, we should probably. Talk, maybe.”

Gerard startles, evidently surprised at the presence of another human in his home. Besides Mikey, Frank remembers, if Mikey hasn’t gone off with Ray somewhere to sink even deeper into his forced denial.

“Frank.” His tone is tight, eyes not leaving his sketchbook.

“Yeah. Uh, hi.” Frank begins to fidget, looking anywhere but at Gerard. “Um, we need to talk about yesterday.”

“Yeah.” Gerard’s voice is absent, not really there. Frank bites his lip and adamantly forges on. “I want to apologize. Also, why did you get upset so fast? I know what you saw, but…you didn’t give me a chance to explain.”

Gerard finally looks up. “A lot of things, Frank. A lot of things.”

“Like what?”

“We had sex, Frank. Like actual we’re-dating sex not I’m-paying-you-to-fuck-me sex. And you didn’t even seem like you enjoyed it! All you cared about was me getting off, and then, the _very next day,_ I find you kissing your fucking “friend”!”

He places heavy air quotes around the word ‘friend’.

Frank has had it. “It’s not that I _didn’t enjoy it,_ it’s just that the years of being a fucking hooker have dulled me to it. I don’t get out of sex what you do, and it’s not your fault. I just don’t! And I’m so fucking sorry for that, I really fucking am. I _wish_ that I could give you what you want. I’m sorry that I’m not enough.”

The last sentence is spoken in a hushed voice but never the less causes Gerard to wince. Frank shakes his head and continues.

“Would you prefer that I _didn’t_ fucking make you come? Because I can do that! Fuck, Gerard, I don’t know what you want. From me, or anyone else.”

Gerard looks genuinely hurt. “I thought you said that you liked that I got you off? That I’m not like…the others?”  
Frank rubs his forehead so as not to scream. “I appreciated the gesture. So much, I really did. But…appreciating someone doing something that they don’t have to do and enjoying it are too different things. Obviously it wasn’t _bad,_ just not the same as it would be for you.”

Gerard sighs, closing his sketchbook.

“Frank, I just, it’s not that. I-why were you kissing Bert?”  
His voice has taken on a resigned tone, one that just demands the truth whatever it may be. Frank takes a deep breath to calm himself.

“It didn’t mean anything. Well it did, but not anything other than platonic comfort. When I said we kiss all of the time, I wasn’t lying.”

Gerard draws in a sharp intake of breath, and Frank witnesses his heart breaking.

“No,” he hurries to explain, “we _do_ kiss, and I-I guess we can stop if you would like, but it’s just something we’ve always done when one of us is upset. It’s just platonic, I promise.”

Gerard’s face softens. “I think I get it. I won’t make you stop, that feels like overstepping my boundaries and I don’t want to do that.”

“Thank you.” Frank takes a tentative step forward. “Are we okay?”

Gerard nods slowly. “I think so, yeah. I’m sorry I overreacted, I guess I just thought you were disinterested in me. Or something.”  
Frank bites his lip, the familiar sensation of sharp pains comforting him.

“Of course not Gee. I-“

His words are cut off by Gerard’s lips connecting with his. Frank quickly disregards any remaining awkwardness from the kinda-sorta-not-really breakup.

“Normally,” Gerard says when he breaks the kiss, “I would suggest awesome make-up sex, but considering that you wouldn’t get much out of it, let’s do something else.”

“We could cuddle and watch movies until the end of time?” Frank suggests.

“Deal.” Gerard plants a kiss on Frank’s forehead and pulls him to the living room.

 

* * *

 

 

Frank does his best to ignore the fact that instead of being pressed up against his boyfriend, absently stroking his hair in his comfortable bed, he should instead be located out in the frigid Jersey air, waiting for work to drive up to him.

He grimaces at the thought and snuggles deeper into the bed. He craves it, sure, but the work is beginning to seem less appealing than just staying in bed with Gerard.

It frightens him, it does, his life almost feels as though it is beginning to slip out of control. His work is his identity and without it, he hardly knows anything about himself.

Well, he knows his name, his age, and the fact that Gerard is his boyfriend. He knows other miniscule details about his life, but that’s all he knows for certain.

It’s terrifying. He feels like he must rediscover and rebuild who “Frank” is, and the utter notion of it makes his want to recede into a mental place where thoughts cannot find him. It takes a long to completely reshape yourself after years of thinking that you know who you are.

Gerard whimpers in his sleep and rolls closer to Frank.

No, he won’t go out tonight. He should, but he won’t.

He can’t help the nagging feeling that their argument was resolved far too soon and painlessly. He knows he should just be grateful, but it seems too…easy. Like Gerard should have shouted at him, maybe hit him, maybe refused to take him back.

He looks uneasily over at Gerard’s sleeping form, and attempts to summon answers when none exist.

His eyelids start to sink over his eyes, and he fights sleep to instead overthink. Should he be “working”?

Frank has to forcibly concentrate on not thinking in order to sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

Rough hands shake his arm, a voice urging him to wake up. Frank cracks his eyes open, and sees a blurry Gerard in front of him. He’s grinning, Frank is pretty sure, and motioning for Frank to get out of bed.

“I made breakfast,” Gerard announces, “To make up for how unreasonable I was. Not letting you explain and all.”

Frank squints and attempts to adjust his eyes to the harsh light of the room.

“Food?” He questions, brain still in it’s-far-too-fucking-early-to-be-awake mode. Gerard nods earnestly, and he reminds Frank of an eager puppy.

“Yep! And Mikey is at Ray’s, so he won’t be here to steal all of it. I swear, he’s a twig but he eats more than you and me combined.”

“Good.” Frank forces himself to get out of bed and fall into Gerard.

“Carry me,” he demands, pointing towards the kitchen. Gerard laughs and complies.

 

* * *

 

 

Frank trails his hands softly along the skin of Gerard’s arched back.

“My idea,” he says, voice soft and sultry, much like the one he used on his customers, “Is that yeah, I don’t get a lot out of sex. But I _do_ love to see how I can make you twitch, love to hear the delicious little sounds that you make when you’re close. So, just let me give that too you. Let me see you squirm, let me watch your face as you come just from me touching you. Please?”

Gerard, far past the point of being able to speak coherently, nods. His eyes are slipping closed, the gentle pressure of Frank’s hands grazing against his skin making him deliriously hard. Frank smiles and slides his hand down Gerard’s inner thigh, centimeters away from his cock. Gerard bites his lip, and arches into the touch.   
“Frank,” he mumbles, urging the other boy on. Frank lazily lets his hand slip around the head of Gerard’s cock, gripping it oh so slightly and moving his wrist in lazy circles. Gerard groans and bucks into the touch, searching for any friction that he can get from Frank’s loose hand.

“Can’t let you come too soon,” Frank murmurs, leaning over Gerard to kiss him chastely, and then lick down his neck. Gerard whimpers when Frank’s lips leave his own, so Frank indulges him by offering him a proper kiss, tongue exploring Gerard’s mouth hungrily. Gerard writhes under him, all sense of decency lost to the overwhelming desire to come.

Frank slips his hand off of Gerard, immensely enjoying the indignant whimper that he receives when he does. Laughing slightly, he instead wraps his mouth around Gerard’s cock, cheeks hollow as he begins to suck. He’s used to this, has done this more times than he cares to count or remember. It’s like second nature, the way his tongue flicks Gerard’s slit and his lips move up and down in perfect rhythm. Gerard moans, long and deep, seemingly incapable of discernable words at this point. Precum stains Frank’s throat, a taste he’s gotten oddly fond of. It’s bitter, and coats the back of his throat, but this is _Gerard,_ and the adorable gasping sounds that he’s making right now make the unpleasantness of the taste fully worth it.

He feels Gerard tense, his entire body becoming rigid. His hands grapple at anything to clutch on to, ending up in Frank’s hair.

“Frank…I’m gonna…mm,” Gerard’s words are broken syllables, voice breathy and filled with obvious lust. Frank makes the executive decision to allow his boyfriend to come, and swirls his tongue around the head of Gerard’s cock. With a muffled cry, Gerard comes, tugging on Frank’s hair in the process. His hips jerk up, shoving his cock farther into Frank throat, cum spilling into Frank’s mouth.

Frank, for his part, is extremely thankful for his nearly nonexistent gag reflex. It allows him to keep his eyes on Gerard’s as he comes, head thrown back and mouth wide in ecstasy. Frank swallows, and replaces his mouth with his hands to help Gerard ride out the pleasurable sensations. He trembles as he comes down from his high, body completely limp beside Frank.

“You did so good, baby,” Frank says softly, letting his lips press onto Gerard’s. Gerard is still out of it, and can only partly return the kiss. Frank doesn’t mind, he loves the sight of Gerard’s glazed eyes and red cheeks caused by Frank himself. He grins at the thought, and then moves his lips down to suck lightly just above Gerard’s belly button. He likes that, Frank knows, arches into the touch without a second thought.

“Fuck,” Gerard pants, eyes refocusing slowly to look down at Frank. “Fuck, Frank, that was fucking hot. Are you sure-“

“Don’t say it.” Frank cuts him off, not in the mood to have another discussion on the matter. Gerard mercifully drops it.

“Shouldn’t have let you come,” Frank says, turning over to lay down next to his boyfriend. “Now I have to wait forever to feel how hot and tight you get when I fuck you.”

Gerard moans lightly in agreement, still floating. “Yeah,” he says, “yeah. Fuck, can I keep you forever?”  
Frank laughs at that, really laughs. “I would hope so, babe, because I definitely plan on keeping you.”

“Good.” Gerard’s eyes are slipping closed again, but he is quick to force them open.

“I don’t…I don’t want to fall asleep before we even fuck,” he complains. Frank smiles and kisses his forehead.

“You won’t. We’ll get to that in a bit, don’t worry.”

“Bu’ I want it now,” Gerard complains, already attempting to pull himself up. Frank watches in amusement as he falls down moments later.

“In a minute,” Frank promises, and that seems to satisfy Gerard.

It’s more like fifteen minutes, really, until Gerard is able to allow Frank inside him.

After applying lube and a condom, Frank carefully slides into Gerard, angling just right as to hit his prostate. Gerard moans, breathy and low, sweat already shining along his stomach. He reaches for Frank, hands instead falling onto the bedspread and clutching the previously clean sheets. Frank leans forward to kiss him, allowing themselves to get caught up in a greedy, lustful kiss that never seems to end. Frank continues his even movement throughout, each time hitting his prostate and inciting Gerard to moan into the kiss. He begins to move faster, causing Gerard’s mouth to drop open and fall away from his own. His head falls onto Frank’ shoulder, and his teeth bite hard into the tender flesh. Frank imagines that Gerard probably tastes sweat and arousal, tainted with the taste of salt. He pulls him in for another bruising kiss, and Gerard falls back and pulls Frank with him. Gerard slams into the headboard, a harsh banging sound audible over their combined panting.

“Fuck,” Gerard moans out, but he doesn’t sound displeased.

“You like pain,” Frank manages to note, receiving a moan in response. He takes it as an affirmative answer.

“Interesting.” Frank reaches out and pins Gerard’s shoulders down onto the bed, not entirely surprised when Gerard hips jerk and he starts babbling about being close, and _oh God Frank, how are you so good at this,_ and Frank just bites down on Gerard’s lip. His hand reaches forward to grasp Gerard’s cock, jerk it while he fucks him.

He feels the exact moment that Gerard falls over the edge, cum spattering the sheets and Frank’s stomach, and Frank’s name is said in strangled gasps. Frank, once again, helps him ride it out, palming his cock gently until Gerard has stopped shaking and panting from his orgasm.

“Oh fuck.”

Frank stares happily into Gerard’s unfocused eyes and signs in contentment. He’ll jerk off in the shower later, just to relieve the pressure, but this is good. Better than good, actually, because Frank has his boyfriend lying next to him, panting from something that Frank made him do.

It makes him ridiculously happy.

As it turns out, Mikey was not actually at Ray’s the whole night so when Frank walks into the kitchen to make Gerard breakfast he is met with Mikey’s smirking face.

“Oh shut up,” he says, moving around the taller man to reach the cabinet.

“Didn’t say anything. But is this where I give the customary “you hurt my brother, I kill you” speech?”

Frank smile wryly. “Didn’t you already do that?”  
Mikey shrugs. “Never hurts to check. You’re making that for me, right?”  
Frank looks down at the package of bacon in his hand.

“I could make extra?”

Mikey nods in agreement and Frank begins to see how he can control Ray so easily. Mikey has an air of control that radiates from him, he’s one of those people whose orders you never take a second to question.

“Alright, extra bacon it is. Would you go wake Gerard while I make this?”  
Mikey cocks an eyebrow but goes to wake his brother. Frank sighs in contentment. The whole scene is so utterly domestic and he could not be happier. He’s never experienced this, but he’s beginning to think that it would not be hard for him to get used to it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you read this whole thing I applaud you. Thx. I'm a slut for comments. *hint hint*


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